


Out of Thought

by green_violin_bow



Series: Out of Thought [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Withdrawal, Family annihilation (mentioned), Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Introducing a bit of filth now, M/M, Murder (mentioned), Mycroft is simultaneously very clever and extremely silly, Post-Season/Series 03, Rated explicit but that might take a while, Really painfully slow burn, Really very much earning the Explicit tag now, Slow Burn, Someone left these idiots in charge of feelings, There's a lot of sex, They're not prepared, background Johnlock, post-tab, really a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-07-22 04:04:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 80,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7419061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_violin_bow/pseuds/green_violin_bow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft finds that it is harder than he could have believed to push away the determined friendship (or something) of Greg Lestrade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first time it happens, it’s just a tiny thing. Perhaps no-one else in the world would notice such a small act of kindness from a stranger.

A near-stranger.

Mycroft has been in the hospital for seven hours now. Not in his brother’s room; that distinction belongs to John. His presence would only annoy and disturb Sherlock when – if – he wakes, anyway. Mycroft doesn’t know what to say to John. The man is grey-faced and broken. He hasn’t had time to understand what Sherlock showed him, what Mary Morstan confirmed. Sherlock lapsed into a coma before anything else could be said. John came with him in the ambulance.

Mycroft knows the perfect sentences with which to soothe royalty, diplomats, aides, even politicians. But he cannot think what to say to John, who has been so thoroughly betrayed on every front.

Of course, a private room was found for Sherlock. And a small office has been hastily made available for Mycroft’s use, not far away. Not quite within Sherlock’s hospital ward, but on the same floor at least. Close enough, should anything happen.

Sherlock is medically stable, at least. The doctor even said that the coma – as long as it didn’t go on too long – might not be the worst thing for him. But Sherlock so still, so silent, submitting to the restraints of the tightly-tucked, starched hospital sheets… It reminds Mycroft of other nights, other hospitalisations. Other restraints, not so benign as the stiff white cotton.

It’s 5am. He’s worked all night, alone in the small, silent box of an office, tapping insistently away at his laptop and Blackberry. Nothing else for it. Keep working. The work never stops. Britain is in a constant, slow-motion state of falling, and Mycroft Holmes is the only one who props it up enough to carry on.

His eyes are glazed and puffy with tiredness. He stands and opens the window as far as it will go (not far – a small iron catch stops it before it reaches width enough to allow a human to pass through. Such is the state of the NHS, he thinks wryly. The ghost of something that, on another man, could have been a smile twists the outer corners of his lips). So ends the self-imposed smoking ban. Shame, he’d almost made it to five weeks this time. His fingers twitch a little as he pulls the white packet out of his jacket inside pocket.  
“I’m sure you’re not meant to do that in here,” says a cheerful voice behind him, East London accent cutting strongly through the early-morning silence. “And I thought you’d given up, anyway?”

Mycroft turns, fingers still clutching the cigarette packet jealously. He sweeps Detective Inspector Lestrade from head to toe with a haughty, resentful look. “I wasn’t aware that my smoking habits or otherwise were known to you, Inspector.”

“That’s Detective Inspector, to you,” grins Lestrade. “Unless you just want to call me Greg. Might be easier. Less of a mouthful.” He grins again, looking Mycroft right in the eyes.  
Mycroft, quite frankly, does not know how to respond. He lets the moment extend. When he speaks, it is more softly than he meant to. “It has been a long night. I found myself turning to – old friends.” He meant it to sound cutting, dismissive. It doesn’t.

“Those friends’ll kill you,” says Lestrade. His grin is gone, sensing Mycroft’s mood. He steps closer, holding out a packet of his own. “Have one of these. I’m back on them again.”  
Somewhat to his own surprise, Mycroft drops his cigarettes into his briefcase and takes a nicotine patch. He sits down in the office chair, heavily, and contemplates where to put it on. Embarrassing. He thinks about taking off his jacket, undoing the cufflinks at his shirtsleeve in order to put the patch on his arm. Too much time under Lestrade’s scrutiny. Instead he pulls the knot of his tie down a little, undoes the top button of his shirt and awkwardly fits the patch onto the very bottom of his neck. It won’t show once he does his top button back up.

Lestrade has watched it all, intently. “I can’t believe you’ve still got your collar done up and your tie on,” he says, a little teasingly. “The staff said you’ve been here since – for hours.”

Mycroft does not answer at first. “I had hoped to be able to go home to change before the working day began,” he says quietly, looking out of the window at the grey sunrise, more insistent now across the London skyline. “I have a meeting this morning at which my attendance is unavoidable. No matter. The hospital staff will notify me if there is any change in Sherlock’s condition.”

Lestrade is still watching him, his brown eyes knowing. “The staff seem hopeful he’ll be OK,” he says. He pauses, but doesn’t add anything else. Mycroft is grateful. Lestrade knows, of course, about Sherlock’s past. He was even there for some of it. But they have never spoken, not like this. The grey dawn lends the small, ugly office a kind of hush, an unexpected intimacy.

“Let’s get a coffee, before you go,” says Lestrade. “The Starbucks downstairs is already open.” Mycroft is already opening his mouth to decline before Lestrade has finished his sentence, but the words are stopped in their tracks by the gentle squeeze of the other man’s hand on his shoulder. It is a physical shock. He cannot remember the last time another person touched him with friendship. “You’re going to need the caffeine, after tonight,” says Lestrade, looking directly into Mycroft’s eyes. He doesn’t let go of his shoulder for another moment, and when he does, Mycroft silently gathers his things together, picks up his briefcase and umbrella.

They each order a strong coffee. Lestrade pays. Mycroft doesn’t know why he lets him. Lestrade guides him to the side table of milk, sweeteners, chocolate powder and cinnamon. Mycroft tersely shakes his head at the offer of milk – of anything – but Lestrade looks at him askance. “You take sweetener, don’t you?”

Mycroft’s eyes dart sharply to Lestrade’s face, stopping short of eye contact. They rest on the defined plane of the Inspector’s right cheek. Lestrade clearly understands the snapping glance of _how do you know that_ , but Mycroft doesn’t say it out loud, so he doesn’t answer. Perhaps the twitch of his lips into a smile is a little smug.

“One,” says Mycroft, emptying the little pink packet into the dark Americano (three shots, in honour of his sleepless night). He makes to move away, but Lestrade is already stirring his coffee with one of those ridiculous little wooden sticks. Mycroft blinks, nonplussed. His own long fingers are still folded round his cup, but he has not moved away. He can feel the tiny vibrations of Greg stirring his coffee for him through the paper of the mug.

A glance up: Greg is intent upon his task, a small frown between his eyebrows. His bottom lip is caught under the upper. His eyelashes are surprisingly long and dark.

Maybe no-one else would notice someone taking a moment to stir their drink for them. But to Mycroft Holmes it feels like an electric shock.


	2. Chapter 2

221b is empty and silent. John, of course, has returned to the flat he shares with Mary. Sherlock is in a solitary confinement cell underneath MI6. Mycroft worries at the thought of him there; he will not be safe alone with his own mind.

Mycroft has gathered up Sherlock’s passport and other documents. Of course he will travel under another identity, but it’s important to have these safe. Before long they may be the only tangible evidence that he ever had a brother named William Sherlock Scott Holmes. He zips them into the inside pocket of his briefcase.

He has been awake for 36 hours. A long working day, followed by a helicopter ride into a nightmare of sniper rifle lasers and the single, ringing crack of a pistol shot as Mycroft watched his little brother commit murder. His own tearing panic as he called out for inaction from the troops around him. _They will cut him down_ , his brain screamed. The anticlimactic helicopter ride away, Sherlock handcuffed, unresisting. He was silent, but not sullen. Did as directed. The perfect prisoner.

But for Mycroft, then, his day was only beginning. Endless meetings. Pleading without seeming to plead – _my brother’s life is worth more_. Sherlock would die quickly in prison.

Mycroft has no reason to linger any further. He is not allowed to pack anything for Sherlock – clothes, books. Nothing from outside will make it to him. Especially nothing from his brother. They cannot be seen to interact. The British government must remain impartial.

And yet Mycroft is still standing in the living room of 221b, staring fixedly at Sherlock’s violin. If only he could get it to him. Mycroft learned to suppress and master his insistent brain earlier, and more effectively, than Sherlock did. When Sherlock doesn’t use drugs, he uses his violin. Sometimes he plays for hours. Sometimes it’s not even music, just noise. A scraping way to cope.

“What’s going on?” asks Lestrade from behind him. Mycroft, without meaning to, flinches a little at the shock of another’s presence. “Where’s Sherlock? John? I came about some files –” the tone of his voice has changed as he speaks, fading to doubt. He has understood how very unusual it is to find Mycroft here alone, unmoving. “I thought I saw your PA downstairs,” he adds, quietly.

Mycroft has gathered himself. He finds the energy to turn, attempting his usual unruffled mien. “She should not have allowed you in. John has returned to live with Mary and Sherlock will not be back here for…” Mycroft swallows, throat unexpectedly dry. “For some time.”

“Oh.” Lestrade has deep brown eyes. The usual adjective used to describe the kind of brown eyes he has is ‘melting’. But his are sharp. “I saw on the news that Magnussen bloke was shot. Intruder.” Lestrade shuts his mouth, staring directly at Mycroft.

Mycroft’s mouth twists as though he’s sucking a lemon, but he is scanning Lestrade’s face with interest. “Yes,” he says. It’s enough. They stare at one another, helplessly.  
“Is there anything I can do?” asks Lestrade.

“Nothing whatsoever,” says Mycroft, staring away at John’s chair. The silence is heavy and awkward. To his own surprise, he exhales quietly and adds, “there is nothing I can do, either.”

Lestrade runs his hand through his grey hair, sighing. He follows Mycroft’s gaze to John’s chair. “What about John?” Mycroft turns his head back to dart an inquiring look in Lestrade’s direction. “I mean – I don’t know how Sherlock got shot. But John was there, right? And…” Lestrade takes a breath, as though unsure if this will be a step too far, “and he and Mary have been apart ever since.” Determinedly, he fixes Mycroft’s gaze with his own.

Mycroft studies the man’s face for a long moment, and finally gives a concessionary “hmm”, which might as well have been, _you are a good detective, aren’t you?_ Something changes in the air around them; Lestrade’s eyes crinkle just a little, pleased.

“He has returned home with her, now,” Mycroft says, cautiously. He would be the first to admit that he can think politically. He surrounds himself with people daily whose manoeuvrings he can predict ten moves ahead. But in emotional matters… “The birth is imminent, of course,” he adds.

Lestrade opens his mouth, pauses, considering. “You’ll need to talk to him, of course,” he says slowly, “but I don’t think that necessarily means that everything is fine now. With Mary, I mean.” He rubs his hand through his hair again. “I mean – it’s Sherlock. I saw John when Sherlock was in hospital. He was angry.”

Mycroft is staring into the kitchen now, his mind turning over the implications of what Lestrade has said.

“When was the last time you slept?” asks Lestrade, smiling a little. “Or ate? Or even had a cup of tea? I thought PAs were supposed to make sure their employers kept body and soul together.”

“Anthea knows very well not to foist nourishment upon me until I specifically request it,” rejoins Mycroft, voice sharper than he meant it to be. “And she would be somewhat surprised, I suspect, to hear herself described as my ‘PA’.” He needs to think. To plan.

“Don’t tell me you also like to starve yourself in a crisis –” begins Lestrade, but Mycroft is stepping past him and taking up his umbrella from where it leans beside the door.

“Yes, thank you, Detective Inspector,” says Mycroft with some asperity as he crosses the threshold, but his mind is elsewhere, racing through possibilities, courses of action. It’s only as he reaches the top of the stairs that the disappointed expression in Greg’s brown eyes registers at the top level of his consciousness. He stops short, surprised at his own rudeness.

Slowly, he turns to regard the detective again, sweeping the man’s face with his dark grey gaze. Lestrade returns the look steadily, but cannot hide his surprise when Mycroft steps back to him and holds out his right hand. “Greg. Thank you.” His tone is a little too formal, but he means it sincerely, and Lestrade seems to understand. He holds out his hand in return, and their palms meet, fingers wrapping strongly around the backs of each other’s hands.

For a long moment, their eyes are locked, and Mycroft feels the strange human connection keenly. And then he withdraws his hand and steps away, to start again. To plan.


	3. Chapter 3

Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose and massages, trying to soothe away the headache that is throbbing stronger by the minute. He stares out of the window, looking past his own shadowy reflection to the drab concrete garden beyond. Some evergreen shrubs in pots, and a couple of greying benches. Copious cigarette butts.

*

Sherlock stumbled from the plane, Mary alongside him. Mycroft pulled John back, just for a minute. Once outside, Sherlock was irrepressible, riding a wave of chemical wellbeing, full of excitement.

“We must take Mrs Watson home,” said Mycroft dryly, holding the front passenger door of the discreetly expensive car open for her. It was an order, not a courtesy; the driver, standing uselessly to the side, regarded Mycroft with astonishment. Anthea stood away, waiting to take the other car.

This arrangement was awkward, Mycroft knew. He ought to send Mary with Anthea. But he did not want to seem too obvious in his prying apart of the Watsons. He also did not want any suggestion that John should go home, and stay home, with Mary.

The most awkward thing of all was the back seat of the large – but good grief, not large enough – car. Mycroft bullied Sherlock coaxingly into the left side, behind the driver, and stared John right in the eyes until he silently, but very resentfully, climbed into the centre. Mycroft settled himself stiffly behind Mary’s seat, long legs cramped with the effort of holding himself fastidiously upright, away from bodily contact. He leaned forward and gave the address of John and Mary’s flat to the driver.

It was too much to hope that the journey could be accomplished in silence. Instead, Sherlock talked about the case of Emilia Ricoletti, his voice high and excitable. Mycroft did not meet John’s eyes. Mary asked snide questions.

Outside the flat, Mycroft unfolded himself from the back seat and held Mary’s door open. She moved towards the stairs down to their front door, and Mycroft took the opportunity to lean towards John as he climbed out. “Be quick, please,” he whispered. “I need to get Sherlock to a doctor as soon as possible. We still don’t know what he took.”

“I understand,” nodded John, soldierly. He was back within ten minutes.

Mycroft got into the front seat, grateful for the leg room and lack of uncomfortable proximity to others.

“She’s not happy,” muttered John, as he settled in the back seat again.

Sherlock’s mood seemed much calmer now, but sleep was threatening. John devoted himself to stopping Sherlock from falling asleep, and Mycroft asked the driver to make as good time as possible to the address he provided.

When they arrived at the private medical facility in a nondescript building in Whitehall, Sherlock was slumped against the car door, grinning beatifically at John.

*

“A massive combined dose of heroin and cocaine,” said the doctor, looking at both Mycroft and John, unsure who to address. Anthea stood quietly in the corner, busy with her Blackberry.

“Is that – is that all?” asked John, doubtfully. “Are you sure?”

The doctor looked at him with surprise. “You were expecting…something else?”

Wordlessly, Mycroft handed him the list. The doctor scanned it, eyebrows rising. “I – no. There is no evidence of anything other than heroin and cocaine,” he said. “Of course – it could have been very serious. The chance of respiratory or heart failure was high.”  
“And now?” asked John.

“He is stable,” said the doctor. “He will start to withdraw before too long. Expect nausea, vomiting, anxiety, confusion, aching, chest pains. We have him under constant watch for seizures. We see from his arms that this is not the first time…?” His voice trailed away.

“No, not the first,” said Mycroft wearily, his lips twisting wryly. He looked fixedly at the wall as he spoke. The man’s anxious, chubby face was intolerable to him. John’s eyes were narrowed as he stared down at his own feet, neatly aligned as if on parade.

“I’ll sit with him,” said John.

*

Outside, a pigeon pecks speculatively at a cigarette butt. Mycroft hears Anthea enter the room quietly behind him.

“Please contact Detective Inspector Lestrade to let him know that Sherlock and Dr Watson will not be available to work with him in the immediate future,” he says, crisply.  
“Yes, sir,” Anthea replies, looking at him with a slightly troubled frown. “Will you contact Mr and Mrs Holmes, or would you prefer me to update them on the situation?”

“I have yet to decide,” Mycroft sighs. “I am sure it will soon become obvious whether Sherlock will need to be admitted to a rehabilitation facility. Please make a provisional reservation for him as before. We can review with advice from his doctors as the situation develops. Regarding AGRA – have there been any developments?”

“My latest update from our contact is that the extradition paperwork is in progress, sir.”

“And the surveillance?”

“All quiet since we left her at the flat, sir. The arrangements with the hospital have been finalised and the security team is awaiting the order.”

“Very well. I need hourly updates, please.”

“Yes, sir.” There is a heavy pause, Anthea regarding Mycroft’s tie, rather than making eye contact. “Sir – perhaps it would be best for you to contact DI Lestrade? He has become something of a friend to your brother, and may feel personally concerned.” Her voice is a little too deliberately professional.

Mycroft regards her, eyes narrowed. This is an intolerable insubordination, and ought to be quashed. “Very well,” he snaps, turning away to hide his surprise and confusion.

Behind him, Anthea turns and leaves the room quietly. Mycroft takes a few steady breaths with his eyes closed, then steps out of the room and down the corridor, to look through the glass window in the door of his brother’s room.

Sherlock is sweaty and grey-faced, writhing uncomfortably and pressing his stomach with both hands. John stands by holding a thick cardboard sickbowl. His right palm is wrapped around the back of Sherlock’s neck, holding on despite Sherlock’s painful squirming. There is a quiet moment where Sherlock relaxes back against the pillows, his neck still cradled against John’s palm. His eyes are wide and black as he stares up into John’s face. The naked trust in them is painful to witness. Mycroft looks away sharply, stepping backwards, breath leaving him in a shaky hiss.

Outside, the cigarette-butt pigeon waddles away resentfully when Mycroft takes a seat on one of the benches. The phone rings six times before it connects, just long enough for Mycroft’s heart to squeeze uncomfortably tight with dread.

“Lestrade.” The annoyed tones of someone harried receiving a call from an unknown number.

“Detective Inspector,” says Mycroft. He means his voice to be smooth and unhurried, but his breathing is a little constricted.

“Yes?” asks Lestrade.

“Mycroft Holmes. My apologies for contacting you during what I am sure must be a busy working day. I cannot go into great detail over the telephone, but I am afraid that neither my brother nor Dr Watson will be available to work with you for some while.”

There is a pause as Lestrade exhales heavily. “Right. And is Sherlock –”

“I am afraid that he has fallen back into…old habits,” says Mycroft, staring down at the drab concrete slabs.

“Fuck. Right, sorry, I mean.”

“Yes.” An uncomfortable, but commiserating silence.

“It would be good to be able to talk about it – properly. Find out more,” says Lestrade, hesitantly. Mycroft opens his mouth and shuts it again, deplorably unsure of what to say. “I mean – we could meet somewhere?” adds Lestrade.

Mycroft blinks – once, twice. “Security is a factor,” he says dryly. “Might you come to the Diogenes Club this evening?”

“Of course,” says Lestrade, and his voice is brighter. “Er – wait, where is that?”

“I can send a car.” Mycroft’s left hand is in his jacket pocket, twisting his handkerchief almost painfully round two of his fingers. “What time will your duties be complete?”  
“Seven – seven would be good,” says Lestrade. It sounds as though he is smiling.

“Very well,” says Mycroft, with forced calmness. “Until this evening.”

“See you later, Mycroft,” says Greg, and hangs up.

Mycroft stares down at the Blackberry in his hand. _Mycroft_.


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft stares at his laptop screen. The cursor blinks on the email response he has been attempting to compose for several minutes. This is a ridiculous delay – he knows well that he can only afford to spend between two and four minutes on each email in order to clear the backlog of correspondence that his brother’s actions have caused. He cannot marshal his thoughts into their usual order, into composition of a concise, clear and diplomatic response. The clock in the corner of the screen shifts its pixels minutely. Seven twenty-three already. The journey from New Scotland Yard should only have taken around ten minutes.

He unfolds himself from the office chair and moves to the drinks tray. Drinking alone is a dangerous indulgence in many ways – time, calories, alertness. He especially tries not to allow himself to drink in circumstances that other people might consider…emotional. His brother’s current situation might certainly be considered a source of stress. But on this occasion – his chest feels a little tight, his breathing somewhat shallow. He unstoppers the extraordinarily fine whisky and pours out two fingers.

The fine crystal tumbler nearly meets the floor as the office phone rings behind him. He steadies his hand and puts the glass down on his desk as he picks up the receiver. “Yes?”

“Mr Holmes, your guest has arrived. Wharton is showing him up to your office now.”

“Thank you, Wilder.” Mycroft puts the phone down, and straightens the knot of his tie. He eyes his suit jacket on the hanger, but there is no time – a soft knock comes at the door. Silently, Wharton opens the door and ushers Lestrade in. Mycroft nods at the steward and he withdraws, closing the door gently behind him.

“You could’ve warned me it’s a silent club,” says Lestrade without preamble. “I was very nearly thrown out by the door staff! There’s an old geezer downstairs – who I swear was actually wearing spats – nearly had an apoplexy when he heard me.”

Mycroft isn’t sure what to say. The crinkling around Lestrade’s eyes seems to suggest that he is amused by what has occurred, rather than actually annoyed at the lack of forewarning. “Some of the clientele do still believe in very traditional codes of dress,” he ventures. The sound of his own voice startles him.

Lestrade grins. “You could say that.” His eyes sweep over Mycroft. “You’re looking positively dressed-down in comparison, today.” His brown eyes flick back up amusedly to Mycroft’s grey ones.

Mycroft’s gaze flicks nervously to his jacket. “I – had been working –” he wishes heartily he’d had time to put the third piece of his suit back on. His left hand smoothes over the front of his charcoal-grey waistcoat, the detestable softness of his small stomach evident beneath his fingertips. He presses his lips together and finds a more formal tone. “Can I offer you a drink? I had just poured one for myself when you arrived.”

“Yes, please,” says Lestrade. Some of the light and laughter has gone from his voice. Mycroft can feel the man’s gaze on his face, but he does not meet it.

“There is whisky or cognac in here, or I can ring to the bar if you would prefer some other –”

“Whisky’s great, thanks,” says Lestrade, giving a heartfelt sigh as he drops into the comfortable chair on the other side of Mycroft’s desk. “Long day.”

Mycroft leans over to place the whisky glass gently on the desk in front of the detective, and sits back down in his own chair.

“Mmm, delicious,” says Lestrade appreciatively. “Good stuff.”

Mycroft takes a sip from his own glass, the expensive crystal singing just a little between his lips. He is no longer drinking alone. He savours the smoky mist of flavour as it slips over his tongue. 

“So,” says Lestrade. “You mentioned that Sherlock has –” he glances around the comfortable office. “It’s secure here?”

“Yes, entirely secure. We can talk freely.”

There is a short moment of hesitation, where Lestrade seems unsure of whether to speak or not. “What exactly is it you _do_ , Mycroft?” he asks, gazing insistently at him.

“I hold a minor position in the British government,” says Mycroft smoothly, eyes half-closed as he takes another sip of whisky.

“Which allows you an office like _this,_ in a gentleman’s club that serves whisky this good like it’s table wine?”

“Yes.”

“Which gives you access to details of my, and other detectives’, ongoing investigations?”

“Yes.”

“Which allows you to keep an eye on Sherlock using surveillance and CCTV networks?”

“Yes.”

“Which means – which means you can’t personally be seen to help him, if he did…what you said he did.”

There is a moment of dead quiet. Mycroft’s chest tightens a little and he swallows fast, whisky going down like fire. He accepts the burn. “Yes, although not fully accurate. I can help him _personally_. I can help him as my brother, especially with…rehabilitation.” He takes a long deep breath, his throat a little ragged. “With the drugs,” he says, quickly. “I cannot help him with the Magnussen situation. Not in any meaningful way, not openly. The only way to help him now is to expose AGRA’s part in it all.”

“Sorry…” says Lestrade, “AGRA? What’s that?”

“An organisation. One part of a larger umbrella organisation, for which we have no name, as yet. Moriarty’s network was another branch of the wider concern.”

“But – Sherlock dismantled that, didn’t he? So what was all that stuff with the video?”

“That was…that was us. Me. A clumsy and attention-seeking way of creating a need for Sherlock’s return. Not my finest hour. We do _need_ Sherlock to fight a branch of the wider organisation, just not the one that we pretended he would be fighting.”

Lestrade gives a thoughtful, acknowledging _hmm._ “And…AGRA? When we last spoke – I got the impression that all of this links to Mary, somehow. She really – she really _shot_ Sherlock? It seems – why? I can’t believe it.” Lestrade runs a hand through his silver hair, then down to rub his eyes.

“Yes.” Mycroft’s face twists, and he snaps his gaze away to stare sharply at nothing, at a fixed point on the wall. “She did.”

“Bloody hell. But then how does it all fit together? Mary, John, Sherlock, Moriarty, Magnussen, AGRA…you say there’s this shadowy umbrella organisation behind it all, but why did Sherlock shoot Magnussen?”

Mycroft presses his lips together and fixes Lestrade with his most terrifying stare. “Detective Inspector, until this point I have been presuming that our conversation is covered by a – gentlemanly agreement of confidentiality. But I would like to make it clear that if _any_ part of this conversation is repeated outside this room, it will not only be me that you have to answer to.”

Mycroft had been expecting a cold, offended response, but Lestrade’s brown eyes are dancing with amusement, crinkling at the edges again. “Alright Mycroft, no need for that. I know how to keep my mouth shut. When I need to,” his voice is warm and soft.

Mycroft looks away quickly, breaking the gaze. “Very well. Then I have to tell you that everything revolves around John Watson.”

“You sound like –”

“Yes.” Mycroft interrupts him, staring down at the polished wood of his desk. “Which is part of the problem. Because John Watson has proved to be the Achilles heel of two very different people. My brother, and Elizabeth Anna Cole, or the woman we know as Mary Morstan. That name was taken from a stillborn child, buried years ago.”

“Bloody hell,” Lestrade sighs loudly. “So what – why? Who is she?”

“An American citizen. For many years a CIA operative, she…branched out after an old contact gave her the opportunity to work for a new organisation. AGRA. She was an assassin.”

“So, what, she just happened to meet John, fell in love and was trying to get out of the game?”

“Nothing so simple, I am afraid. AGRA was assigned to support Moriarty’s network in several of their organised crime enterprises. Unfortunately this also extended to aiding Jim Moriarty in his obsessive personal vendetta against my brother. Cole was assigned as the sniper covering Dr Watson on the day that Sherlock committed suicide.”

There is a moment of loaded silence in the small room. “What?” asks Lestrade.

Mycroft sighs. “On the day that Sherlock committed suicide, Moriarty had snipers follow John, Mrs Hudson and – and you, in order to blackmail Sherlock into jumping.”

“Me?” Lestrade looks genuinely surprised. “Why?”

“Because Moriarty knew that Sherlock valued you as a – _friend._ ” Mycroft manages to keep the majority of his usual venom out of the word, but Lestrade’s mouth twitches with a quick smile anyway.

“I never thought,” Lestrade says wonderingly. He doesn’t finish the sentence. Mycroft does not know what he is supposed to say to that. He pushes on.

“Cole did not stop following Dr Watson. As she watched him after Sherlock’s disappearance, she saw an opportunity. Not just for a different life, but for power. She calculated that Moriarty’s network would be weak after the loss of its figurehead. Perhaps AGRA could expand to dominate that network too, if there was sufficient opportunity in the confusion. That would give AGRA more sway within the wider organisation as a whole. She convinced her paymasters to allow her to get close to Dr Watson, all while working to find out more about the network. It also allowed her to monitor whether Sherlock was actually dead. She assumed that Dr Watson would be the first to know, if not. She had suspicions, of course, given that Moriarty’s network was slowly being destroyed. But John’s devastation was an argument against it. Despite the ruination it has caused to their – _relationship,_ Sherlock was right not to inform Dr Watson he was alive.”

“Right – but Magnussen?”

“Magnussen’s news empire represents another part of the wider umbrella organisation. It was not in his interest to allow AGRA to gain in power by expanding to replace Moriarty’s network. So he took the opportunity to engage in a little personal blackmail of Cole. In return for his silence regarding many aspects of her past – as well as the identity of the father of her baby – she would begin to feed inaccurate information to AGRA.”

“The baby?” Lestrade groaned. “Bloody hell. Poor John. I don’t know what to say.”

“She shot Sherlock because he was getting too close to the truth, to Magnussen. And because he had seen her threatening Magnussen with a gun. She meant to kill my brother. He died on the operating table.”

“But why – why did Sherlock shoot Magnussen?”

Mycroft sighs heavily. Perhaps the whisky is taking effect, but he feels inexpressibly tired. He passes a hand over his eyes and leans his elbows on the desk, staring down at the swirling patterns in the dark wood. “Because he loves John Watson. He believes that John wants to live a life of ignorance, that John chose to ignore his wife’s past. It is – my fault that he thinks that.”

Lestrade’s brown eyes are soft with sympathy. His hand twitches a little on the arm of his chair. “Why?”

“I spoke to John, when Sherlock had gone back into hospital. I asked him to pretend to forgive Mary, to pretend that he didn’t want to know about her past. She had given him a USB drive, in front of Sherlock, that had a cobbled-together version of her past on it. Mostly lies. Nonetheless it gave us a few interesting details to add to our intelligence, and allowed us to discount some other points. But John burned it in front of her, at Christmas, to regain her trust. It bought us some time. But Sherlock saw him do it.”

“So he thinks – that John still loves her?”

“Yes,” says Mycroft simply. “There is nothing left to live for, from Sherlock’s point of view. He shot Magnussen to preserve the life that he thinks John wants. When he thought he was going back to Serbia, he took heroin and cocaine again. But he had a longer list with him. I think he wanted some time to think, to remember. But I believe he meant to take the rest, when he could get it.” He stares blankly down. Lestrade knows about the lists, from – before.

“Fuck. Mycroft, I am so sorry.” And suddenly, Lestrade has pulled his chair forward, and leant over the desk to pull Mycroft’s left hand into his. It’s a brief squeeze of solidarity, but the contact makes Mycroft start. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but it doesn’t seem so alien, this time, this touch of skin on skin. The contact breaks. His heart thumps, and his face feels warm. Greg sits back in his chair, pensive.

“So what now?”

“Now – we are in a delicate balance. Cole is ready to give birth, but that in no way stops her from being dangerous. She has the might of the AGRA organisation behind her, as well as the wider operation, about which we still know only the sketchiest of details. If she believes that John has personally betrayed her, we cannot predict what her actions will be. And Sherlock – if he continues to believe that John has chosen Mary, then…then I think he will try again.” Mycroft cannot stop his voice from shaking, just a little.

“And John? What does he want?” Lestrade watches Mycroft’s face, sympathy in every feature.

“I –” Mycroft folds his arms uncomfortably. “I found myself – unable to discuss _every_ aspect of his emotions with him. But I believe that he wants what he was too stubborn and hurt to allow himself to want when Sherlock returned.”

“Thank goodness,” mutters Greg. “About time.” Mycroft looks away, and when he turns back, he finds himself once again the object of Lestrade’s close scrutiny. “This is awful for you,” says Greg, simply. “But you’re a great brother.”

“I doubt that Sherlock will think so,” says Mycroft quietly. There is a moment of silence.

“Thank you for telling me everything,” says Lestrade. “Is there anything I can do?”

“I believe –” Mycroft sighs. “I believe it may be necessary for us to admit Sherlock to a rehabilitative facility in the near future, for his own protection. Can I rely on you to find him cases? Cold cases, anything that does not require his attendance in person?”

“Of course. I’ll get a stack together for him.”

“Detective Inspector –”

“ _Mycroft!_ Greg. It’s Greg. We talked about this.” Lestrade’s brown eyes are warm and full of laughter.

“Greg. You have been a good friend to Sherlock, and…” he pauses, fighting back the tight, swelling feeling of nerves in his chest. “I want to thank you. Personally. For everything you’ve done.” He stands up, and holds out his hand.

Greg does the same, and their palms meet again, soft and warm. Greg’s fingers squeeze his hand with gentle pressure. Neither of them let go. “If you really want to thank me,” smiles Greg, “we should go out for dinner together. Soon. Wherever you prefer. I’m happy with a pint and some chips down the pub, but I don’t know if that’s your scene.”

Mycroft stares at him, aware that some sort of answer is required. The mixture of alcohol and the soft pressure of Greg’s palm against his own is numbing his ability to think, to speak. He swallows hard. “I – that certainly sounds like an appropriate way to thank you. And it will allow us to discuss – developments. And cases. For Sherlock. I will need to check my work diary. Shall I…call you to discuss when would be convenient?” He risks a glance up at Lestrade’s face.

Lestrade gives him a beaming smile. “Great. And I should get going. But call me soon, yeah?” he squeezes Mycroft’s hand again, and they shake, once, twice.

“Yes,” replies Mycroft quietly, as he feels Lestrade’s hand withdraw from his own, and watches the detective step to the door. With one more flash of a grin, Lestrade opens it and is gone. Mycroft stays standing where he is, fingertips pressed against the cold wood of his desk, eyes fixed on the doorway.


	5. Chapter 5

It is a painful kind of relief. The phone rings five times, and Lestrade is breathless when he picks up. “Mycroft! Alright?”

Mycroft swallows suddenly, then finds his voice. “Detective Inspector Lestrade,” he says smoothly. “I am afraid that I must break our appointment for this evening. A situation has arisen and I will be unavoidably detained in the office, probably until the early hours of the morning.”

There’s a moment of silence, and a slight rustling at the other end of the phone. It could be a sigh. “Ah well, that’s a shame,” says Lestrade. “I looked the place up. It looked nice.”

“Yes,” says Mycroft, a wry twist to his voice. He’s not sure what else to say.

“So shall we rearrange?” asks Lestrade, hopefully. “Next week?”

Mycroft hesitates, his chest tightening a little. “Ah – I regret, I will be out of the country next week.”

Another small silence, and when Lestrade speaks again, it sounds as though he’s smiling. “Oh, right. Shame. What about the week after? Should I call your not-PA to find out when would be good?”

Mycroft frowns a little, pressing the pen he’s holding down, hard, onto the pad of paper in front of him. This is more difficult than he had anticipated. “Unfortunately it is impossible for me to know the details of my schedule that far in advance,” he says coldly. “It is liable to change suddenly.”

There’s a little chuckle from the other end of the line. Why does Lestrade still sound as though he’s grinning when he speaks? “So I see. Well why don’t you give me a call when you unexpectedly have a spare evening? I’ll try to keep myself free.” There’s a pause, just slightly too long to be unintentional. “For you.”

“Very well, Detective Inspector,” says Mycroft acerbically, and hangs up. He drops his phone back onto the desk and stares abstractedly at the pen he’s still holding. Why did he agree? He should have made clear that he would _never_ have a free evening. Still, at least now he can focus on monitoring the peace negotiations uninterrupted tonight. The clenching in his chest and stomach that he has been experiencing since he set up the meeting with Lestrade have eased, but now there is a dull, heavy feeling settling behind his eyes. Perhaps he is getting ill. He sighs and pulls his laptop back towards him. No time for that.

The knock comes at his office door at 8pm. When he mutters “come in,” he expects Anthea to put her head around the door with an update on various matters, but instead the door opens fully and Mycroft freezes in his hurried glance. “Lestrade,” he blurts out, eyes wide.

Lestrade smiles awkwardly, looking as if he regrets whatever impulse brought him here. He holds up a plastic bag bulging with white cartons. “I – thought I’d bring some food, since you’re too busy for dinner out. I checked with your – Anthea,” he adds hurriedly, as Mycroft opens his mouth and narrows his eyes.

“Well _kind_ though that is, Detective Inspector –”

“Mycroft, please,” it’s a softer plea than he expects, and stops Mycroft short. Lestrade, still in the doorway, has pinned him with his brown gaze. “ _Please_ call me Greg. I know this is an imposition, and I’ll go away if you want, but I was looking forward to see– to our dinner. And then you cancelled.”

Mycroft squirms a little, the well-bred diplomat tasked with his own impoliteness. “My professional obligations are hardly as easy to set aside as your own,” he says, sourly.

Greg snorts a laugh through his nose, and steps inside, closing the door behind him. “Yeah, well, mine aren’t exactly a picnic,” he says good-humouredly. “So perhaps I get it. A bit.” He places the bag carefully on the desk between them. Mycroft glances at it. Unwillingly, he admits to himself that he is hungry.

“I will need to check my laptop frequently,” he says, motioning Greg to the chair on the other side of his desk.

Greg nods, once, businesslike. “I get it,” he says. Then, more doubtfully, he looks at the bag and glances over his shoulder to the sofa and armchairs arranged around a coffee table in the corner of the bright, airy office. The floor-to-ceiling windows show a beautiful view of London’s skyline at sunset, encroaching navy blue streaked with grey and tinged with pink. “We could – I mean, there are bits to share, so – we could set everything out over there. And share.” He glances back at Mycroft, then down to stare fixedly at the white plastic bag.

There is a moment while Lestrade fidgets awkwardly with his hand in his jacket pocket, and then Mycroft picks up the bag and carries it over to the coffee table, taking an armchair looking out over the sunset skyline. Lestrade drops onto the sofa at ninety degrees to him, so that he can look out too. “Great view of –” he starts to say, but Mycroft has also started to ask what dinner is. There’s an awkward pause.

Mycroft’s mouth is shut in a tight line, so Lestrade leans forward and starts unpacking the bag, opening white cartons. “Sushi. Not really my thing, but your assistant – Anthea, whatever – told me your favourite place. I don’t know if it’s the right stuff though. I tried to get a bit of most things. Cover my bases.” He sounds a little awkward again. Greg Lestrade doesn’t seem like someone who is often awkward, in any situation. Mycroft stares down at the spread, and reaches out for a packet of chopsticks.

He glances up obliquely at Greg as he splits and rolls the sticks. “This is – good.” There’s a heavy pause. “I shall have to speak to Anthea about the information she gives out about me, however, even to members of the police force.” He reaches out for a tamago nigiri and savours the delicious flavour, watching Greg from under his eyelashes.

Greg gives him a hurried, nervous glance, but starts to grin as he scans Mycroft’s face properly. The smile spreads quickly to his eyes, crinkling them at the corners and lighting up his face. Mycroft looks determinedly back down at the sushi spread, then up at the advancing sunset. “We’ve known each other years, now, Mycroft,” says Greg, more confidently now. “She probably doesn’t think I’m a threat to you.”

“Then she is an expensive waste of training,” says Mycroft. It comes out more seriously than he meant it to. He clears his throat a little, still looking out of the window. “And we may have been in the same place at the same time occasionally over a period of years, but we have hardly – _talked_ at all.”

“Yeah, well, you always seemed pretty busy,” says Greg. He’s laid a napkin flat across his hand and is putting different types of maki and nigiri on it. “Nice stuff,” he says, nodding at the spread in front of them. “Doesn’t mean I didn’t want to talk to you.” His voice is rather diffident now, and Mycroft purses his lips, chest tight again, staring hard at the seaweed salad. “You – or I – or both of us – were usually sorting out Sherlock in one way or another.”

Yes. To business. Mycroft sits up a little straighter in his armchair and scans Greg’s face again quickly. Just out of the corner of his eye. “Sherlock is –”

“Yeah, I got the email from Anthea,” Greg cuts him off. “Don’t worry, I’ve sorted him out a stack of cases. Are you sure the staff are going to be able to cope with him there?”

“Yes. They have experience,” sighs Mycroft. “But I anticipate that it will be significantly easier this time. Sherlock and Dr Watson have – have talked. Sherlock understands the situation with AGRA. He has – he has a reason. To go on. Without drugs.” He glances quickly at Greg to check whether he has understood, but finds his gaze caught inexorably by Greg’s brown eyes. He’s grinning uncontrollably.

“That’s brilliant. Brilliant,” he smiles. “Finally.”

“Yes, well, nothing is – finalised yet. We have to keep AGRA happy, for now. But.” Mycroft comes to a stop, unsure what to say next. It is unbearably awkward to be discussing his brother’s emotional affairs.

Greg leans forward to snag a paper cup of miso soup, shifting forward in his seat. His knee gently bumps Mycroft’s, a purposeful nudge. “Yeah, well, we don’t need to worry about that now then,” he smiles. “Tell me – tell me about your day.”

A pause. When he speaks, Mycroft’s voice is regretful. “There is so little I can tell you,” he says quietly. “Apologies –” he gets up and retrieves his laptop, checking briefly through the live transcript appearing on screen. He places the computer on the armchair next to him, facing away. “And – your day?” The words sound wrong to him, foreign between his lips, but he looks up to find Greg smiling at him. He swallows quickly, and finds refuge in carefully picking up a ginger maki with his chopsticks.

“Busy. Long. I assume you have clearance to hear about any of my cases?”

“Of course.”

“Of course,” grins Greg in return. Mycroft is regaled with the latest domestic murder Greg is dealing with. “Not something I need Sherlock for, thankfully,” says Greg, drily. “Apart from that, mountains of paperwork to catch up on. The usual. Where are you going next week?”

“Only New York,” replies Mycroft. “A summit. Not one which will be reported in the news – due to its dullness and lack of importance, rather than any secrecy.”

“Lucky though,” says Greg. “It’s years since I’ve been to the US. Think the last time was with my ex and Fee – and her kid,” he added, seeing Mycroft’s enquiring glance. “Only Disneyworld though. Nothing as cool as New York.”

“Well, unfortunately I am unlikely to be able to experience any of the ‘cool’ of the city,” says Mycroft distastefully. Greg chokes on some seaweed and grins at him.

“Oh come on,” he smiles. “I know you like good whisky. One of my colleagues was telling me about his trip to New York, and apparently there’s a speakeasy – can’t remember exactly where it was now but I can find out for you. Apparently this place has an amazing selection. You’ve already got the suits for it, all you need is a fedora and you’ll be ready to go.”

Mycroft stares at him, unsure how to reply. He can’t stop the corners of his mouth twitching in response to Greg’s beaming smile. “A fedora? Me? Good grief,” he says quietly. Greg – well, it can only be described as _giggles_. Mycroft can’t help a real smile now.

“You’d look great,” Greg says decidedly, sitting back in the plush sofa and surveying Mycroft head to toe. “And I bet they go crazy for your accent.”

Mycroft ducks his head a little, evading Greg’s gaze. “I – have some whisky here, if you’d care –” Greg’s just sitting forward, opening his mouth to reply, when Mycroft’s mobile rings. Immediately he crosses to his desk, carrying his laptop with him. His voice is very different as he answers the phone.

He sighs and casts a glance at Greg, who has turned around on the sofa to look at him. Greg grimaces and points at the door, and Mycroft nods, once, regretfully. Greg comes over to his desk and pulls Mycroft’s writing pad over. He leans down to write as Mycroft turns away, scanning the transcript and fielding questions from the minister on the other end of the phone. He waves a small goodbye and smiles brightly at Mycroft as he shuts the door.

Mycroft pulls the pad over, thumb gently caressing the binding at the top. The note says:

_Let me know when you’re back from New York? I’d like to do this again, soon. Ask Anthea for my email address. She has it (somehow). Greg_


	6. Chapter 6

It’s just a small rectangle of green space, pushing back insistently against the grey tide of the city. Four benches, seven trees and a criss-cross of a path through the centre. Unimaginably drab compared to the reality of the countryside. And yet for Mycroft, to sit here with his black coffee, one sweetener, before he has to arrive at work is comforting. Any day he can manage it is automatically a calmer and more organised one. The park opens at 5am. Sometimes Mycroft is waiting by the gate when the park keeper unlocks it. Those mornings, they nod to one another.

This morning Mycroft is sitting on his usual bench, halfway through his coffee, compiling a mental list of the most urgent tasks which need his personal attention before he leaves for New York. Well, mostly. Sometimes he thinks about the evening before last, when he inexplicably acquiesced to Lestrade’s frankly rude and presumptuous arrival at his office. He came bearing dinner, but still – and Mycroft had actually been asking him to stay for a drink when the phone rang and he had been drawn back into work. A lucky interruption, he thinks sternly, fixing his gaze on the path in front of him.

Several sips of coffee and a couple of list items later, his thoughts are jolted by the appearance in front of him of a pair of worn black brogues. He keeps his head down, avoiding eye contact, but the man has placed himself directly in front of his bench and is obviously not planning to move. Mycroft glances up, clearing his throat to speak. His capacity to do so, however, is entirely removed by finding that the annoying intruder is none other than Greg Lestrade.

Mycroft frowns at him.

Defensively, Lestrade holds up his hand. “I’m sorry,” he says, trying a smile. “I know I’ve done this too much recently, and I know you want to finish your coffee in peace, so I won’t be a minute. But I brought the name and address of that place for you.” He fishes inelegantly in the pocket of his blazer and pulls out a sheet of notepaper, folded once. “In case you did want to try it,” he adds, against Mycroft’s silence.

Slowly, Mycroft reaches out to take it from Lestrade’s outstretched hand, still frowning. Quite clearly, Lestrade could have sent the name and address to him in a text. Or an email. Or an email to Anthea, come to that. A phone call, if truly necessary. But this? He looked up at Lestrade awkwardly. “How did you know I would be here?” he asks. It wasn’t what he meant to say.

“I – I asked Anthea again,” admits Lestrade, digging both hands into the pockets of his grey work trousers. “She said you come here before work, to think.”

Mycroft raises one eyebrow. “I see,” is all he says, still looking up at Lestrade’s face, neck craned backwards.

Lestrade pauses, but takes a step forward and sits down next to Mycroft. “Don’t – you know, fire her or anything,” he grins. “It’s my fault, not hers.”

“Detec– Greg,” begins Mycroft, the hauteur in his voice somewhat spoiled by the false start, “she is used to deflecting the queries and threats of some of the most powerful players in international politics and business. This is certainly _her fault_.” He looks away, at the bench directly opposite, on the other side of the park.

Greg nudges Mycroft’s elbow with his own, and he stiffens, tightening his hands around his coffee cup. “Don’t worry, I’ll be off in a minute,” says Greg. He sounds tired. “Court date today. Early start, then back to the office tonight to catch up on everything I’ve missed from being out all day.” There’s a pause, in which Mycroft stays silent. “I can see why you like coming here in the morning. Quiet.” Another brief silence. A bus rattles by outside the gate. A squirrel runs up one of the trees. “Except when I turn up, of course,” sighs Greg.

“Thank you for the address,” says Mycroft, tightly.

Greg shifts on the bench next to him. “Okay, well, got to get over to the court, so I might as well get going,” his voice is overly bright. Mycroft can hear the stinging disappointment behind it. Something tightens in his stomach.

“I –” he begins, uncomfortably, impusively. He turns to look at Greg, their faces close, knees almost touching. He has no plan for what to say. Greg had turned towards him at the same moment, obviously planning to add something to his previous words. Neither of them seems to be able to break eye contact.

“Oh – carry on – sorry,” mumbles Greg.

“No, really, I insist,” says Mycroft, in a poor imitation of his usual suave manner. He is red to the ears, and shuts his mouth decidedly.

“I – I was just going to ask you again if you’d call me. After New York. Promise to call me, I mean,” says Greg. Mycroft feels an unfamiliar weight on the arm of his immaculate navy-blue coat. Glancing down, he finds that it is Greg’s hand resting there, and is unable to take his eyes away. Greg squeezes his arm, just a little. “I had fun, the other night,” he says, and there’s a little of his smile returning, despite the awkwardness. “I think we could be – friends. If we tried.” Mycroft can tell that Greg is looking at his face again, but still cannot look away from Greg’s hand on his arm.

_Oh, I don’t do that,_ supplied Mycroft’s brain, but instead he cleared his throat, and paused. “I will. Call you.” His eyes are wide and dark grey as he looks up at Greg, frowning a little. “It may take some time – I will be busy when I return.”

“Don’t worry, I get it,” says Greg softly. He squeezes Mycroft’s arm one more time, and lets go. A moment of quiet, and then he stands. “See you Mycroft. Have a good trip.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and hunches his shoulders as he walks away.

Mycroft holds his arm very still, staring at the squirrel, and clutching his cup of cooling coffee.


	7. Chapter 7

Mycroft unbuttons his waistcoat and unwinds his tie, thumbing open the top button of his collar and removing his cufflinks with slow deliberation. He had toed off his shoes at the door, and savours the rare feeling of padding about in socks. He sits down on the bed with a thump, a little unsteady.

It’s his last night in New York, six days after he watched Greg walk away across the park. The summit has indeed been tortuously boring. He has been working sixteen-hour days, trying to keep up with his usual tasks as much as possible. He has also thought about the silver-haired detective every day, without meaning to at all. The simple pressure of the other man’s hand on his arm seems to linger still, a startlingly pervasive sense memory.

Now, however, he is more drunk than he has been in probably…eight years. It’s hard to remember. Especially hard to remember _at the moment_. He falls back onto the bed and pulls his personal mobile from his pocket, opening a draft email. He attaches a picture he took at the speakeasy bar, of his own long fingers wrapped around a glass of particularly fine whisky. The email says:

_Greg – the bar was a good idea for my final night. Too much good whisky, which I will undoubtedly regret on my journey tomorrow. No fedora though. Mycroft_

He smiles as he hits send. He looks ten years younger when his eyes smile too, without that bitter twist. He is asleep before his phone confirms the attachment has been sent.

It’s only when he’s packing in the morning, short, tight movements against a pounding headache, that Mycroft realises what he did the previous night. Even then it’s only the _ping_ of his personal mobile which tips him off. He grabs the phone crossly, convinced that it will bring news either of Sherlock’s rebellion in rehab, or of the start of the birth of the Morstan (rather, Cole) baby. He doesn’t feel able to deal with either of those situations today. Not during an international flight, nursing a chronic hangover.

It’s an email from Greg. He stares at it, nonplussed.

_Mycroft – were you drunk when you sent that email? Because it doesn’t show. Typical. My drunk texts and emails are riddled with typos. Yours are as erudite as ever. Shame about the fedora – I still think you would’ve looked great. Nice to see your hand with a glass of good whisky in it. Hope you don’t suffer for it too much on your flight. See you soon? Greg_

Mycroft reads it twice, then puts his phone face-down on the chest of drawers. He has an unreadable expression as he finishes carefully folding the last of his clothes into his suitcase. When Anthea knocks on the door to let him know that the car is waiting, he picks up his phones, passport and luggage in silence, glancing around once before he turns to leave.

“Alright, sir?” asks Anthea, scanning his face.

“Quite, thank you Anthea,” he replies pensively, lips tight, eyes guarded. “Ready.”


	8. Chapter 8

“Mycroft? What’s going on?” Lestrade’s voice is rough as he rounds the corner of the hospital maternity ward. “John called me but I met Anthea by the lift and she told me I can’t see him.”

Mycroft turns slowly away from the window. He has been staring absently at the tiny figure of Mary’s – Cole’s – baby in her cradle. It is a private room in a private hospital. There is no sign of Mary, or of John. The baby is terribly small, and terribly alone, contorting her face and waving her little mittened fists.

“John called you?” he says, slowly. It has been a long night.

“Yeah – he…we’re mates. We get a pint together now and then. He knows the baby isn’t his but he said he’d appreciate me coming. Since Sherlock isn’t here.”

“I see.” Mycroft looks down at the floor, trying to suppress the strange twisting feeling in his stomach. It’s the first time he’s seen Greg since before New York. Events overtook him.

“So – is he okay?” Lestrade steps up to the glass and glances in. His attention sharpens on the cradle and the tiny squirming figure within. “Is that – where’s Mary? Cole?” he corrects himself, with a half-shake of the head.

Mycroft sighs, turning back to stare fixedly through the window. “She is being transferred to a secure facility. And the biological father is being informed.”

“Separating them so soon…” Lestrade doesn’t criticise, but his brows are drawn down as he says it. He hasn’t taken his eyes from the baby.

“Our only choice.” Mycroft says coldly. “Not a choice at all, in fact. We cannot risk her escape. It would open my brother to personal attack from Cole, and professional attack from AGRA. She knows enough that we can use her as a bargaining chip, if we can keep her secure.”

“Alright, I get it,” sighs Lestrade, rubbing the back of his neck. He glances sideways at Mycroft. “You always look tired. When do you sleep?”

Mycroft bristles a little. “I sleep quite enough. My appearance is perhaps somewhat rumpled as a result of the many hours I have spent in this hospital –”

Greg gives a little bark of laughter. “Mycroft, I don’t think you could look _rumpled_ if you tried.”

Mycroft opens his mouth to retort, but Greg turns his head properly and says, calculatingly, “maybe if _I_ tried.”

He snorts a laugh at Mycroft’s look of dumbfounded outrage. Mycroft is horrified to find that his cheeks are heating, his face turning red. He stares fixedly at the baby. He can feel Lestrade watching his profile, and it doesn’t help his blush abate at all.

“John is completing paperwork and starting a short formal debrief,” says Mycroft, with the best impression he can manage of his usual haughty tone. “He has effectively been undercover with a hostile agent for the past weeks, and we need to make sure that we get the maximum information and detail as soon as possible.”

“Bit tough on him though,” says Lestrade thoughtfully, leaning his shoulder against the window and staring determinedly at the side of Mycroft’s face. “The baby. Finding out about his wife like that. Now all of this.”

“We are – we are completing a short, essential debrief now, so that John is free to travel. He and I will be visiting Sherlock at the rehabilitation clinic tomorrow.” Mycroft turns his head just a little, stealing a peripheral glance at Greg’s expression from under his eyelashes. Greg gives him a beaming smile.

“I’d ask if I could come along –” he starts, but Mycroft is already shaking his head.

“Impossible as yet. There will soon be a safe house available for him to continue recuperating, away from London. I am sure you would be welcome to visit him then.”

“And John?” smiles Greg, turning back to look through the window again. He braces his hands on the rail in front of them, leaning further towards the glass.

“I imagine he may need some rest and recuperation too, after so many distressing events,” says Mycroft quietly.

Greg nods, quietly approving. Mycroft notices the sharp point of his haircut at the nape of his neck. His skin is always so brown, tanned, a striking contrast to Mycroft’s own pallid hue. He has a vivid vision of placing his hand softly on the back of Greg’s neck, as John had done for Sherlock. The difference between the tones of their skin would be striking.

“Poor little thing,” Greg says sadly, staring at the twisting bundle in the cradle. “Was it a girl, like they thought?”

“Yes,” rejoins Mycroft, transferring his attention back to the baby with a slight shake of the head. “Unnamed, as yet.”

There’s a pause, then Greg fixes him with a wide brown stare. “Can I hold her?”

“I –” Mycroft is not sure what to say. There is no real reason to deny Greg. It feels wrong, somehow, a bonding act with a baby who is not and cannot be affiliated with them, for her own safety. She will be adopted abroad, under as many obscuring protections as Mycroft can devise, unless the biological father fights for her. Mycroft does not expect that he will. He sighs. “I suppose so.”

Greg smiles and curves away, pushes the door open with his hip. The little girl is just starting to wail, and he scoops her up, cradles her in his arms. Mycroft follows reluctantly, hovering by the door. The baby calms immediately, absorbing the warmth of this new body.

Greg is entirely engrossed in the baby’s scrunched face. “I’ve never met a human this young before,” he says, wonderingly. “Isn’t that strange? I’m nearly fi – in my forties and I’ve never held a baby this young.”

“Five hours, approximately,” supplies Mycroft. He can’t help watching Greg’s expressive face, his wide, astonished eyes as he looks at the baby.

“Never managed one of my own,” murmurs Greg. The room is hushed, seeming to expand and contract around the irregular, gulping breaths of the tiny human in Greg’s arms.

“You still could, I suppose,” says Mycroft, rather blankly. There are complex emotions here. He feels as though a misstep could send him tumbling, a long way down.

“Hardly,” says Greg, shooting Mycroft a quick glance accompanied by a complicated smile. “Nah,” he whispers to the baby, a kind of spoken lullaby. She has stopped trying to keep her eyes open. Greg settles her gently in the crib, letting her grip his finger when she stirs until she drifts off again. “Strong grip on you, little one,” he murmurs as he withdraws his hand and steps away.

Outside the room, Mycroft is lost for words. He seems to have witnessed something unbearably personal. It feels like rockclimbing. He doesn’t recognise any of the footholds.

“I might get a coffee while I wait for John. I’ll drive him home once he’s done here,” says Lestrade, stifling a yawn. “How long do you think he’ll be?”

“An hour more at most,” returns Mycroft. He wants to rub his eyes, push the heels of his hands in until he sees stars. He craves a shower. He desperately needs to sleep. He will remain here, though, watching the baby through the glass, until the team arrives to take her to the secure location.

Useless emotion. Perhaps even a kind of superstition. But John had asked him to watch over her, so he would.

“I’ll grab you a coffee,” says Lestrade behind him, “black, one sweetener.” It’s not a question.

They sit on the bench opposite the baby’s room in near-silence for the next forty minutes. They sip their coffee. It is quiet, and Mycroft is surprisingly comfortable. They watch the baby sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

The silence in the back of the plush black Landrover is not uncomfortable, but even so Mycroft finds himself on edge. John’s profile is outlined starkly against the brightness of the morning light through the window, his lips thin, pressed pensively together. They had spoken a little when John climbed in at Baker Street, a few mundane details about Cole, about the baby. John did not want to know much. It is a long drive – around two and a half hours – and they had fallen silent as the car pulled out of London.

Mycroft clears his throat. “Sherlock has not been allowed to use his mobile for several weeks, now,” he begins.

John looks around quickly, his lips loosening slightly into a smile, a little huff of amusement. “I could tell. I haven’t been receiving thirty texts a day moaning about how bored he is,” he says drily.

“I understand from DI Lestrade that Sherlock has been most helpful in clearing up several cold cases, while he has been at the facility,” adds Mycroft, turning his head to look out of the window at the hedgerows flicking by. “And from the staff that he has been much more cooperative than –” he pauses, glancing briefly over to John. He had been about to say ‘than usual’, but that was hardly fair, given the number of years that had elapsed since something like this had last been necessary. “Than on previous occasions,” he finishes quietly.

John nods, a small smile at his lips.

Mycroft’s mouth is a little dry. “Dr Watson – John – you are aware of course that Sherlock is deeply –”

The hand that John holds up to silence him is hardly unexpected. Mycroft sighs, but does not finish his sentence. He is surprised when John turns further towards him, tipping his knees towards the centre of the back seat. John’s gaze is calm and determined. “It’s alright, Mycroft,” he says, and Mycroft is confused to hear the gentle, almost pitying tone. “You know,” smiles John, “you’ve been right about me – about us – for a long time. Since the first time I met you, in that bloody warehouse. I need him just as much – I should have heard what you were really saying. Would’ve saved us all a lot of trouble,” he says wryly. “But it’s up to us to sort it out now. Me and Sherlock.”

It’s a dismissal, but a kind one. Mycroft sits back and returns to watching the countryside slip by. Eventually he hears John turn back to his own window. The rest of the journey passes in silence.

*

Sherlock has been informed by the staff that he should expect a visit from his brother and Dr Watson today, and Mycroft can see the tells of his little brother’s nervousness even if he looks his usual calm, haughty self. He’s wearing his black suit and a white shirt – _determined not to look dishevelled, since the last time John saw him he was shivering and vomiting in withdrawal_ – and is ostensibly entirely absorbed in the perusal of several police files strewn over the desk of his room. Mycroft’s eyes flick to the careful disorder of the files, the unused page of the notebook, the unruffled state of his little brother’s hair. Artfully posed.

John is already smiling, his left hand clenching as they look through the door of Sherlock’s room. Mycroft can feel him almost buzzing, lighting up beside him. He feels terribly superfluous. He knocks. Sherlock’s head flies up, but he relaxes again when all he sees is Mycroft, a slight sneer at the corner of his lips. Mycroft opens the door.

Sherlock’s eyes fasten immediately on John, and Mycroft observes the almost imperceptible shiver that runs through him, betraying his agitation. Mycroft steps just inside the door and nods to Sherlock. “Brother.”

Sherlock’s only response is a quick flick of his eyes, a sullen “Mycroft.” His attention returns to John, eyes taking in every tiny detail and difference since their last meeting, just over three weeks ago. Mycroft can almost hear his little brother’s heartbeat filling the room, a desperate racing patter. His own breathing seems to have sped up. He wants to step back outside and keep walking.

From the doorway, John smiles at Sherlock. “Saw the garden on the way in. Fancy a walk?” Sherlock nods, once, and follows John out. The glance he flicks at Mycroft on the way out says _follow us at your peril. You know nothing about this. I don’t need you._

Mycroft’s chest hurts. He pushes some of the files on the desk to one side and leans on the hard wooden surface, taking out his BlackBerry and assessing the new emails which have come in during the journey down. He answers a couple, forwards some more to Anthea. When he glances up, he realises he can see into the garden.

Sherlock and John sit together on a bench. Mycroft sees the way that Sherlock’s haughty body language relaxes, with John. Their knees are tipped towards one another.  Mycroft means to look away, but somehow he doesn’t, and so he sees his brother’s look of wide-eyed frozen wonder when John gently takes his hand. Not many words are said. They don’t even kiss. But Mycroft has not seen his brother’s face so soft since he cried alone on the floor of a Serbian prison cell.

*

They sit together for about half an hour. Mycroft goes back to working, looking up every few minutes. Eventually he sees them standing up, walking back towards the house. They do not let go of each other’s hands until they are nearly at the French windows. Mycroft shifts guiltily to sit at the desk, his back to the window, focusing hard on his BlackBerry.

When Sherlock and John re-enter the room, Sherlock huffs angrily at Mycroft and flaps him away from the desk, replacing the files which he had disarranged. “As usual, Mycroft, you manage to cause chaos and destruction,” he snaps, but his tone lacks its usual bite. The look he shoots Mycroft is triumphant.

Mycroft sighs. “Dr Watson told you of the plans following your discharge on Friday?”

Sherlock does not answer, deliberately turning his back to stare out of the window. “Yeah, I told him,” says John calmly. “I’ll drive down and meet him at the cottage. Not far from here.”

Suddenly Mycroft feels intensely awkward, and needs to get out. “Very well,” he says with his usual sideways inflection. “I shall not see you for some while then, Sherlock.” He leaves a few moments for Sherlock to reply, but he does not stir at all. Mycroft picks up his umbrella and steps around John. “I shall wait in the car.”

Downstairs, he nods politely to the staff and lets out a sigh of relief as he settles back into the Landrover. His chest and throat feel tight. John joins him just five minutes later, shooting him a sympathetic look as he climbs in. Mycroft turns his head away quickly.

John falls asleep about an hour into their silent journey. Mycroft glances over, and remembers that Lestrade had asked to be told how the afternoon panned out.

_\- I believe that John and Sherlock have discussed matters to their satisfaction. MH_

It’s just a few moments before his mobile vibrates in response.

_\- Glad to hear it. Good to see your brother? He alright? G_

Mycroft purses his lips. He doesn’t know how to respond. _How would I know, he wouldn’t speak to me?_ Petulant, self-pitying. His fingertips tap restlessly on the back of his mobile, but it buzzes again before he can compose an adequate reply.

_\- Still busy at the moment but I was going to leave work about six, cook, maybe open a bottle of wine. Want to come over about 8, share it with me? G_

Mycroft’s heart stutters and he stares at the screen blankly. On an impulse, the message is written and sent, and he grips his mobile hard, his hand a little sweaty.

_\- What is your address? MH_

_\- You mean you don’t know already? Jesus what do we pay MI6 for these days? 38b Craster Road. See you later! G_


	10. Chapter 10

Mycroft is sitting in the back of the sleek black sedan, conspicuous on this street of slightly beaten-up family runabouts and the odd motorbike. (Mid-life crisis markers of those who used to live in the family townhouses, but who now inhabit flats instead, splitting money and the children's time with former spouses.)

Mycroft sniffs. Lestrade is divorced, without the children, of course. One of these motorcycles could be his, not that there’s one parked directly outside his house. He swallows hard, vision blurring in the intensity of its fix on the front door. He has a deep sense of unease, born out of the unpredictability of this situation. He doesn't _understand_ any of it.

He texts Anthea to enquire about progress with a particularly recalcitrant minister. Anthea's firm and fast response is that everything is under control and there is absolutely no reason whatsoever for him to return to the office. He rolls his eyes and taps the handle of his umbrella impatiently.

Only when he is five minutes late does he at last sigh and make to open the car door. The driver acknowledges his nod and gets ready to pull away.

It’s an old townhouse and there’s no intercom. He presses the button for 38b and receives a dull buzz for entry. The door sticks a little as he pushes it open. Mycroft hears his own footsteps and the tapping of his umbrella as terribly loud on the floorboards of the stairs.

As he rounds the turn of the staircase, the door to 38b opens and Lestrade appears, grinning at Mycroft, brown eyes wide and sparkling. “Wasn’t sure if you were going to come in,” he smiles.

Mycroft stops short at the top of the stairs. Disastrously, he can feel his cheeks heating a little. He stares down at the floor, only to be met with the sight of Lestrade’s bare feet, tanned toes flexing against the floorboards. Mycroft whips his gaze back up to Greg’s face. “I – there were a few emails –”

Greg looks sorry for discomfiting him, his lips tucking together as he reaches his hand out. It’s not precisely a handshake; he leans forward and gently pulls Mycroft towards the flat as their palms meet. “Come in, ’fraid dinner’s nothing fancy, just some pasta…” Greg’s voice trails off as he turns to lead Mycroft in.

Mycroft takes a silent, deep breath. Greg’s wearing slim-cut jeans and a soft cotton blue-and-white striped shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His shirt is untucked casually, his silver hair damp from the shower. Mycroft feels ridiculous in his dark blue suit and pink tie tight at the neck. His gaze darts down to Greg’s bare feet again, stomach clenching a little as he sees the difference in colour between the skin on the soft soles and the tanned top. He imagines running the pad of his finger gently down the arch of one instep.

Greg stands aside to let Mycroft in, and closes the door behind him. He’s in a combined living room and kitchen, small but light, lots of white paint and a large bay window, as well as a large skylight over the kitchen area.

“You said that you had already bought wine, but I brought this as a thank-you for the invitation,” Mycroft says, trying not to sound as though he’s suspicious of Greg’s wine choices. “It may not go with –”

“Oh great, thanks Mycroft,” Greg says sincerely, taking the bottle with the merest brush of fingers. “You probably know better than me, but it’s white so it might go. I’ve made broccoli and salmon pasta. Should probably check on it actually, don’t want the broccoli going all soggy.”

He steps into the small kitchen area, putting the bottle down on the counter island and pushing a stool out for Mycroft with a quick glance. When Mycroft sits down, Greg drops a corkscrew into his hand. “Should’ve bought screwtop,” he teases, eyes sparkling. “You can deal with this.” He lets out a bark of laughter as Mycroft’s mouth tightens slightly at the mention of screwtop wine, and busies himself with checking on the salmon and broccoli. “You happy to eat now? I’ll put the pasta on if so. Only takes two minutes.”

Mycroft slides the cork from the bottle with a satisfying little noise. “Certainly. It has been a long day.”

“Don’t get the impression you have any other kind,” says Greg, eyes sympathetic as he pauses for a moment to look at Mycroft. He turns and reaches two large wine glasses down from the cupboard behind him, clinking them onto the counter. Mycroft pours out two half-glasses and they take one each. Greg reaches to touch his glass to Mycroft’s and the resulting chink sings loudly in the silence as they both take a sip.

“Mmm, that’s really good. Thanks Mycroft,” says Greg. Mycroft shakes his head, a little self-deprecating noise in his throat. Greg turns away again as the kettle finishes boiling, pouring it into a saucepan and taking a bag of fresh pasta out of the fridge. He sets it boiling on the hob. “Sorry everything’s just out of a packet, had to buy the pasta in the end. I can actually make it myself, but ended up leaving the office a bit late – got a new DC on the team and she needed some help – only just had time to have a shower and get the salmon started.”

“Please do not apologise. I came straight here from the office myself,” returns Mycroft. “Visiting Sherlock took several hours out of the day and there were things to attend to.”

Greg turns round and leans one hand on the counter. Mycroft tries not to notice his fingers or the blunt curve of his thumb or the veins in his tanned forearm. Greg picks up his wine glass, but doesn’t take a sip. Instead he looks over the edge of it at Mycroft, gaze sweeping over his face, his collar and tie, the awkward way he’s perched on the tall stool.

Greg puts his glass down again, and tops both their glasses up until they’re full. He looks Mycroft right in the eyes. “I should’ve asked you to take your shoes off at the door,” he says. “Forgot. Light carpet.”

It’s a challenge. Mycroft looks calmly back at him for a few moments then slips off the stool, crosses to the door and toes off his elegant Italian leather brogues. He pads back to the kitchen in his fine cotton socks and settles himself on the stool again. Greg has set the tagliatelle to drain in a colander and brought the salmon parcels out of the oven. He takes another swig of his wine and moves around the counter to stand in front of Mycroft. Mycroft’s knees aren’t touching his hips, but it’s close. Greg reaches out, watching Mycroft’s eyes carefully for permission. The first touch of the backs of Greg’s fingers to Mycroft’s neck feels electric. Mycroft has to employ rigid control not to shudder – part pleasure, part fear – at the touch to such a sensitive, vulnerable place. Greg looks only into his eyes as he loosens Mycroft’s tie a little and undoes his top button.

There is a long, silent moment, and then Greg steps away, buries his head in the fridge, and pulls out a bowl of creamy sauce with dill and chives chopped into it. He begins mixing the tagliatelle into it. Mycroft takes an inelegant gulp of wine. Greg clears his throat. “I used low-fat yoghurt, hope you don’t mind. Actually prefer the taste to cream and I’ve put on a bit lately with all the extra paperwork, really beginning to notice it’s not as easy to keep trim these days…”

It’s patently untrue and a transparent ruse, but Mycroft feels his lips curving into a smile for Greg anyway. “That sounds very nice.” His voice sounds strange to him, too prim in contrast with Greg’s friendly patter. “Could I – is the bathroom –”

“Oh yeah, ’course. Door on the right. Other one’s the bedroom.” Greg stops talking abruptly and turns away to sip his wine again.

In the bathroom Mycroft uses the loo and stares at himself in the mirror as he washes his hands, rehearsing the faults so obvious to himself and so often quoted him by Sherlock: weak chin, thinning hair, long nose, podgy – well, podgy all over really. He looks ridiculous with his tie loose. He takes it off altogether, folding it carefully into his jacket pocket. Smoothing the front of his crisp white shirt, he wishes he had chosen a suit with a waistcoat today. There is a strange and unnatural-looking flush heating the apples of his cheeks. He breaks away from the mirror, refusing to look any more, and presses his water-cooled hands to his cheeks.

When he returns to the main room the table has been set with cutlery, their wine glasses, the bottle of wine, a carafe of water and a bowl of salad. Over at the counter Greg’s dishing out two flat bowls of tagliatelle, salmon fillets on the side with a slice of lemon. Mycroft accepts his own bowl and they sit down together at the table. Talking seems an impossibility for Mycroft, his diplomatic prowess deserting him.

Greg smiles at him and raises his wineglass again. They clink glasses and drink, Mycroft solemn. “You alright?” Greg asks.

“Yes, quite,” Mycroft returns. Then, more hesitantly, “thank you.”

“Try it, I hope it’s alright,” urges Greg, pushing salt and pepper towards Mycroft. “I did season it, but…”

Mycroft recognises the symptoms of Greg’s nervousness in a flash of frustration with his own slowness. “I am certain it will be delicious – Greg,” he says, his own worries a little calmed by the need to soothe. He winds a length of tagliatelle round his fork and spears a piece of broccoli. It’s delicious. The salmon is meltingly tender. Mycroft’s praise is unfeigned, and Greg grins.

“Oh thank goodness for that,” he breathes, laughing a little. “I know you must eat out in the best places all the time. I was a bit worried you wouldn’t be able to take it.”

Mycroft regards him across the table. “Of course I do meet with people over meals in restaurants fairly often. However there are so many snatched or neglected meals that to be cooked for is a pleasure.” He looks down at the table as he finishes his little speech, glancing quickly up at Greg through his eyelashes.

“Nice to get a chance to cook for once. Mostly I seem to exist on sandwiches and awful Yard coffee,” says Greg ruefully. He tops up their wine glasses. “We’ll have to open the bottle I bought at this rate,” he grins. “That’ll be a come-down in quality.”

Mycroft smiles as he finishes a mouthful of delicious salmon. “I’ll bring two bottles next time.” He has no idea where that came from. His cheeks heat and he stares fixedly at the grain of the tabletop. He’s opening his mouth to add something, _anything_ , when he feels the side of Greg’s foot graze the very edge of his little toe. Neither of them moves. Or mentions it.

“That’d be great,” says Greg happily. “Probably safer if you pick the wine anyway. I’ll just let you know what I’m making. What about you? Do you cook?”

Mycroft swallows hard. Strangely, most of his brain seems to be concentrating on the almost unnoticeable pressure of Greg’s foot against his own. Still neither of them is moving. “I hardly get the chance. But I enjoy it when possible. I am ashamed to say that the majority of my evening meals are taken at my club or the office. It is unusual for me to return home before eleven.”

“Yeah, tell me about it. Well, you’re later than me by the sounds of it, but still. Too easy to come home late, order takeaway and slump on the sofa. Half the time I wake up there at 3am and have to move to bed with a screaming neck.”

Mycroft presses his lips together. “Work can be…all-consuming,” he says, quietly.

Greg rests his wine-glass on his cheek and smiles against it, his brown eyes piercing. “I bet it can. When you do…whatever you do.” His voice is full of amusement.

Mycroft gives him a little frown, before taking another sip of wine. Greg obviously understands, his eyes crinkling as he laughs.

“Did I ask? I didn’t ask.” There’s a short silence as they smile at one another. Neither of them move their feet. “Didn’t make pudding I’m afraid,” says Greg. “Want me to open that wine? Or shall I put some coffee on? Got some nice stuff somewhere, present from a mate when he went to Italy.”

“Coffee would be –” Mycroft hesitates, but the wine tips him into speech. “Do you have any whisky? We could make them Irish. Without the cream, for me,” he adds, hurriedly.

Greg looks at him as though he’s a genius. “Good thought. I have actually. Let me just put the kettle on and find that coffee.” The tiny warm pressure of Greg’s foot next to his own is suddenly gone.

Mycroft must be tipsy. He can’t seem to stop himself speaking. “The bartender at the speakeasy in New York taught me how to make a proper Irish coffee,” he says, raising his voice a little over the sound of the kettle boiling. “It’s appalling how much sugar and cream goes in.”

Greg grins at him. “Sounds like you had a great night out. Still can’t believe how coherent your drunken emailing is.” He spoons out ground coffee into the cafetière and waits a few moments to let the kettle go off the boil before pouring that in too. He sets the filter at the top, leaving it to sit. “We’ll have to improvise. I don’t have any cream and I’ve only got Scotch whisky.” He turns to the cupboard behind him. “Did get sweeteners though.”

Mycroft watches the curve of Lestrade’s back as he reaches up, soft shirt tightening over his shoulders. _He bought the sweeteners today because he knows I take my coffee with them_ , he thinks, brain sluggish with wine. It would feel so nice to run the palms of his hands over Greg’s shoulders, to gently stroke the short grey hairs at the nape of his neck. He looks abruptly back at his wine glass as Greg turns around, dropping the unopened packet of sweeteners on the counter.

Greg brings the cafetière, two large mugs and the sweeteners over to the table, then moves back to open another cupboard, a high one above the fridge. He stands on tiptoe, reaching blindly in. Mycroft moves to help him, suddenly closer to Greg than he’d expected to be. As Greg moves back out of the way he clasps Mycroft’s arm in thanks. Mycroft can’t really see what he’s reaching for, but finds cool glass under his fingers and brings down the bottle.

Seated back at the table, Greg filters the coffee as Mycroft opens the whisky and fetches a tablespoon. Once Greg has poured out the coffee he pours whisky in over the back of the spoon and stirs carefully. Greg grabs the whisky bottle and pours a little more into each mug, Mycroft smiling and protesting, but stirring it in nonetheless. Greg drops two sweeteners into each and they sip. Greg puts his down with a contented sigh, settling back into his chair. Mycroft hears him stretching his legs out under the table, and cautiously advances his own, too.

There is something complicated in Greg’s expression. “I put the whisky bottle up there a couple of years ago,” he says. There’s a silence.

“Up high,” says Mycroft. It’s just a prompt. He watches Greg closely as he brushes his hand through his hair and over his face, rubs his eyes.

“Yeah. I was…I was drinking alone too much. After the divorce. Stopped while I was going out with Vi – especially with Fee around – her kid, that is. But after that ended…” He falls silent again, staring into his mug. Suddenly he looks up, cheeks heating a little. “Never so much I had a problem – I mean, never at work or anything –”

Mycroft stops him with an understanding nod. “I try not to drink alone either. It would be easy to rely upon it.” He takes another gulp of the delicious coffee.

Greg shifts in his chair, and this time it’s the soft underside of his foot which comes to rest with whisper pressure along the side of Mycroft’s own. Mycroft wishes he’d taken his socks off.

“Good to have you to drink with, anyway,” Greg smiles, his brown eyes soft. “We should do this again.”

“I –” Mycroft hesitates. Everything about this situation is alien to him. “Perhaps I could cook for you. Next time.”

“Only if you tell me exactly which wine to buy,” laughs Greg. “It’ll be exciting to see the home of the British Government.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Sherlock grossly exaggerates…” but the rest of his sentence is cut off by the sound of Greg’s infectious laughter.

“What about you?” asks Greg, suddenly.

There’s a pause. “Pardon?” asks Mycroft.

“When was the last time you saw someone?” pushes Greg. His cheeks are flushed, eyes sparkling with Dutch courage. Mycroft feels a swoop of fear and buries his face in his coffee mug. “Or are you seeing someone?”

“A long time ago, and no,” says Mycroft coldly. He suddenly feels rather out of control, the alcohol making his head swim dizzily. “I – don’t.”

“Oh.” Greg’s face has fallen. He tucks his bottom lip in at one side. “You don’t do this either, though, do you?”

The question hangs in the air, an awkward silence accumulating between them. Mycroft puts his coffee mug down on the table. “In fact, I have an early meeting in the morning I must prepare for,” he says in a rush. He crosses to the door and clumsily bends to put his shoes back on. He sends the blank text to his driver indicating he needs picking up. “Thank you so much for a delicious dinner,” he says smoothly, polite and impersonal.

Greg has got to his vulnerably bare feet and crosses to him, looking bewildered. He stops close in front of Mycroft, looking up questioningly into his face. He doesn’t complain, though. “It was lovely having you,” he says, with a soft smile. “I look forward to next time.”

Mycroft steps backwards, fumbling with the fiddly lock at the door. Eventually Greg sorts it out and their fingers meet. Mycroft pulls his hands away as if burned.

 

It’s only as he rests his forehead on the cool glass of the back window in the car that he realises he left his umbrella behind in Greg’s flat.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eventually, something has to give.

The umbrella plays on his mind incessantly. Has Lestrade noticed it? Surely he’s noticed it. There was no umbrella stand by his front door; the stark black length of it must stand out sharply against the bright white paint of his small sitting room. But there has been no text (or email, or call, or visit) to return it. To arrange another meeting. He makes sure Anthea understands his displeasure at Lestrade’s previous unscheduled visit, at her collusion in his arrival with Mycroft’s favourite food. Perhaps there is the ghost of a question in the raising of this matter, now. Anthea does not answer it. Mycroft scowls after her as she leaves the room. Mycroft works, and works, and works. He travels to Scotland for an important summit, and back. He makes himself busier than ever before. He receives confirmation that John has reached the cottage with Sherlock. The security team’s updates are regular and reassuring. Mycroft smoothes over John’s absence from work – he projects at least two weeks – with the surgery. He is averaging two hours of sleep a night, now.

*

 Mycroft’s second-best umbrella protects him against the downpour as he stands staring over the Thames. The view is hardly a breathtaking one – grey buildings, grey sky, grey rain – but the pattern of droplets against the surface of the water mesmerises him. He is more tired than he can remember being. Even when he gets home before midnight, he finds that sleep will not come. Instead he runs on the treadmill in his gym room, the pounding rhythm soothing him as he listens to audiobook after audiobook.

His umbrella is hardly stopping his shoes and trousers being soaked by the driving rain – the material is already sopping, and the line of his trousers will be ruined – but the breeze coming off the river is fresh and so welcome that he cannot move. The direction of the rain changes with the eddying gusts, blowing harder into his right side, soaking a little higher into his suit jacket. The cold and the wind make his eyes feel properly open for the first time in weeks.

*

He visits Sherlock and John. The cottage is already in chaos, the mess of objects that Sherlock seems to spread in his wake making it look strangely like the inside of 221b. His violin lies carefully amidst it all, put down haphazardly after a recent bout of playing; it wasn’t allowed at the rehab centre. John brought it with him.

The two men look startlingly the same, and shockingly different. Mycroft has never seen his little brother shine so shamelessly with happiness and contentment. Across the room, Mycroft has the impression that he is seeing his brother from miles away. Sherlock greets him with contemptuously narrowed eyes, and forgoes the opportunity to say goodbye.

If there is one thing Mycroft would choose to say about John Watson, it is that he is the man who understands that Sherlock needs his violin.

*

The whisky burns on its way down his throat, and he slumps gracelessly in the desk chair of his office at the club. He broke his own drinking alone rule – Lestrade’s not here to drink with, anyway, so whose fault is it really – and now he’s broken it, he seems to be trying to break it harder with every angry gulp. There is home, but he doesn’t want to go home, he simply cannot bear the idea of his tidy flat, the useless whisper of soft sheets and pillowy duvet against his limbs as he turns and twists in the darkness, the audiobook seeming to make no impression on the yawning silence as he fails and fails and _fails_ to go to sleep.

He can’t bear the thought of running all night, either, or of working until dawn. His skin itches with the intolerability of it all, and he throws the last finger of another fine cut-glass tumbler of whisky down his throat. Pours another. His hand is unsteady, now. He smiles, almost laughing at himself, but the smile is a snake-thing, narrowed eyes sharp. This lack of control is revolting. He will regret it in the morning.

*

The light is excruciating. The noise of the telephone ringing next to his head is physically painful. Mycroft’s eyes feel gummy and swollen as he peers at the ceiling – magnolia paint, hairline crack, the club then – and props himself on his right elbow to grab up the receiver of the old phone.

“What.” His voice is toneless. It’s all he can manage.

“Sir, I couldn’t reach you on your BlackBerry.” Anthea’s voice is gently reproachful. “I have rescheduled your meetings for today.”

Mycroft is silent for a few moments. His stomach feels tight and his hands are unpleasantly clammy. “Battery’s died,” he gets out, lips stiff and tight. His focus is turned inwards.

“Sir…” Anthea’s voice tails off. She sounds much less self-assured than usual. “You have today off. A holiday. You have been –” there’s a long pause, while she seems to assess, rethink. “ _Things_ have been extremely busy lately.” A careful silence. “We all need to rest, sir. Relax.”

Mycroft drops the receiver back onto the cradle, suddenly very sure that what he’d dreaded is about to happen. The scramble to the small ensuite bathroom ends in painful retching, not greatly rewarded as he ate neither lunch nor dinner the previous day. Nevertheless, it is vile. He rises from the floor shaking and sweaty, unsure whether he is going to have to do it all again in another few minutes.

He sits very still on the edge of the bathtub, cold and shivering with sweat. He’s pretty sure, now, that it’s not going to happen again, and he brushes his teeth, unable to make eye contact with himself in the mirror. Suddenly all he wants is to crawl back into the crisply-sheeted bed and fall asleep again. He hasn’t slept properly in weeks. A day of nothing but sleep is the only thing he can contemplate.

His legs are weak and shaky as he takes the few steps back to bed. Shame crawls in the back of his brain – the club porter must have put him to bed last night after finding him drunk in his office – but he can feel sleep stealing over him. He plugs his BlackBerry in and watches the loading logo. When was the last time he let his work phone die? He simply can’t remember.

The emails start to ping in, but the number reaches a peak and then begins to fall. Anthea has obviously taken over his inbox, as she has done before on the (extremely rare) occasions he takes a holiday. He can’t even bring himself to look at them. The phone vibrates in his hand and he taps to open the text without thinking.

_– Mycroft, where are you? Are you OK? Last night was weird. Thinking of misusing police resources to find you! G_

Mycroft looks at the time signature. It was sent almost two hours before, at 6am. He groans. Another text arrives.

_– Answer your phone damn you! G_

“Fuck,” whispers Mycroft under his breath. He opens his text history.

[23:56] _– I want my umbrella back Inspector. MH_

[00:01] _– I wondered when you’d notice it was gone! How’ve you been? Tried calling Anthea but she said you were in Scotland. Sounded like a busy time at work. G_

[00:05] _– I will send a car to pick it up when convienent MH_

[00:07] _– Are you alright? Are you drunk enough to make spelling mistakes this time? :) G_

[00:10] _– I don’t make sp mistakes Inspector. Stop holding myumbrella hostage MH_

[00:11] _– You are! You’re drunk! Either that or someone’s kidnapped and drugged you. You realise the power I have right now? I could ask you anything… G_

[00:16] _– You know the power youhave anyway mH_

[00:17] _– What do you mean? G_

[00:22] _– Doesn’t matter but my best umbrella does MH_

[00:24] _– We could meet up for a drink and I’ll bring your best umbrella. Or you mentioned maybe cooking for me next time. Although perhaps you don’t fancy it? You left so suddenly. G_

[00:30] _– Mycroft? G_

[00:46] _– Mycroft – you OK? Starting to worry that you actually have been kidnapped and drugged… G_

There are five missed calls between 00:50 and 01:30am, but his battery must have died by then. Mycroft screws the heels of his hands into his swollen eyes and exhales angrily. Damage limitation.

_– I am quite well this morning, thank you, Detective Inspector. Perhaps if you could bring the umbrella to work with you one day this week, I could send a car to pick it up. MH_

Mycroft sinks down to lay his head on the pillow, skin crawling as he waits for the answer.

_– DI? What happened to Greg? And I can just drop the brolly off with Anthea if you want, no need for me to come in or anything. Be nice to see you though, if you fancy it sometime. G_

Mycroft stares at the crack in the magnolia paint until finally, head swimming with accumulated tiredness, he sleeps again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this one's taken forever, my lovelies! That Interview gave me a lot of grief, and I took a bit of time away from it all for a while. Hope you enjoyed this update x


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit and an embarrassment

His head lolls heavily against the headrest in the back of the expensive black sedan. He slept for hours during his day off, but the tiredness seems worse, now, his body crying out for more rest.

The hedgerows flash by. John’s email was a surprise – _come down and see us on Saturday?_ – but Mycroft supposes they must have a favour to ask him, something they (well, John) would feel awkward demanding by email. Mycroft suspects that it will be the divorce paperwork. It’s all sitting ready in the second drawer of his desk, but he didn’t want to rush John, to make him uncomfortable. Does this mean that…will they…Mycroft’s right eyebrow twitches involuntarily and he catches his breath short. The world seems to be accelerating away from him.

It must be something important. Such a request from John _must_ have been approved by Sherlock. God knows his brother would never tolerate his presence without sufficient reason. He fixes his tired eyes high on a wide-winged red kite, hanging lazily over the fields.

*

Mycroft’s eyes narrow as the car draws to a smooth halt outside the cottage. There’s another car in the drive, silver, broad. Security, perhaps? Unorthodox, however. He climbs cautiously out of his own car, leaning on the handle of his second-best umbrella, and nods for it to depart. John opens the back door of the cottage as Mycroft unlatches the gate, pushing aside the honeysuckle. There are lavender bushes scattered throughout the garden; the heavy buzzing of bees hangs in the air. A paradise for Sherlock.

“Alright Mycroft?” asks John, and something about the set of his mouth, a softening around the eyes, arouses Mycroft’s suspicion. Has Anthea defied him again, and alerted his _brother (of all people)_ to his…unscheduled time off? His mouth twists and he regards John with a stony glare.

“Quite well, thank you. I trust you and Sherlock are too?”

“Thanks, yeah. Can’t believe how relaxing it is down here. Only things to do are go for walks and pop to the pub. And solve murders. Obviously.” John’s voice gets more awkward as his sentence progresses. There is a short silence during which neither of them knows what to say.

A discordant wail breaks the silence. Sherlock appears to be making his displeasure at Mycroft’s presence known by the time-honoured method of scratching angrily at the strings of his violin. John rolls his eyes. “Tea?”

“Most welcome, thank you,” says Mycroft sourly. Clearly Sherlock assented to this visit, but does not intend to make it pleasant.

The first thing Mycroft sees in the small, light kitchen of the cottage is his brother, back to the window, staring at him malevolently as he coaxes a particularly hair-raising screech from his violin.

The second is Greg Lestrade, clad in jeans and a soft-looking charcoal jumper. If he’s wearing a t-shirt underneath, it doesn’t show. His feet are bare again – does the man never wear shoes or socks, off-duty? – and the colour of the jumper shows off his silver hair beautifully. Mycroft shuts his face down, _blank_ , but not fast enough. A stream of triumphant notes leap from Sherlock’s bow. Mycroft feels his stomach swoop. _Ambush_.

Greg stands up and holds out his hand for Mycroft to shake. It’s only politeness. Mycroft takes it, ignoring the firm press of Greg’s fingers, the slight roughness of his palm. He does not return Greg’s eager, searching look.

The kettle boils, and John fills the large ceramic teapot, clinking four mugs onto the table. “Biscuits?” he asks, into the quiet. “Or there’s that cake Mrs Pengelley brought round. We haven’t made it a day here yet without her bringing scones or cake.”

“Mycroft will want the cake,” interjected Sherlock sweetly. “He can always take some home with him, too.”

Mycroft can feel the blotchy flush on the apples of his cheeks, at the roots of his hair. He and his brother have always been able to communicate – _argue_ – silently, so this is for the benefit of the audience. The triumphant trill of Sherlock’s violin comes again. Mycroft sits at the table, movements tightly controlled, and stares at the teapot. By the window, John has placed his hand at the small of Sherlock’s back and is looking earnestly into his eyes. They don’t say anything, but Sherlock puts his violin down, and subsides into the chair at the head of the scrubbed-wood table.

Greg sits down between the brothers, leaning his head on his hand. Mycroft’s heart misses a beat – how close Greg’s bare foot must be to his own Italian leather-clad one. The sense memory of Greg’s foot alongside his own is startling. He stares hard at the steaming cup of tea John puts in front of him.

John fusses over distributing cake and scones. Sherlock’s always loved scones and honey. They look good – pillowy-white, eggwashed golden – but Mycroft does not indulge. He wishes for his sweetener for the tea.

“Greg thought he’d come and see where we were,” says John, weakly. “Pick up some case files. Bring us some. Other case files.” He can obviously hear his own awkwardness.

“Lovely drive down here,” adds Greg. “Turn up for the books, this weather.” He sounds so at ease. Mycroft can hear the smile in his voice; aches for that kind of easygoing confidence. “Looks like the lads’ve put the nail in the coffin of a gang we’ve been after for a while, too.”

Mycroft’s _mmm_ is noncommittal. “Everything has been…satisfactory?” he asks. “With the security?”

“Yeah, yeah,” nods John. “No trouble. Feels stupid having them around in this sleepy village. The fete was on Wednesday and Doolan insisted on following us around with the most obvious ‘hidden’ gun holster I’ve ever seen. There was a tombola.”

Greg snorts, and Mycroft can’t help a twitch at the side of his own mouth. The idea of Sherlock at a fete is so truly disastrous that he’s not sure what to say.

“Yes, some of the security team are not the most gifted, mentally,” says Sherlock, his eyes narrowed on Mycroft’s own. “But then, my brother is used to surrounding himself with _goldfish_.” He glances obviously to Lestrade, opening his eyes innocently wide as the Detective Inspector stares at him. Mycroft takes an accidentally too-large gulp of tea and it burns his throat. He can’t help wincing, just a little. Sherlock’s sly grin spreads. He spreads honey on his scone with a triumphant flourish of the knife.

“Don’t say that in front of Doolan,” sneers Mycroft.

“Don’t worry _Myc_ , I’m sure John could protect me,” snips Sherlock, casting John a look which makes Mycroft’s lip twist with revolted horror.

“Oh I’m sure _Doctor_ Watson –” begins Mycroft, but Lestrade breaks in.

“Jesus, lads, what is this? My goon’s bigger than your goon? Can’t we all just drink our tea and eat this delicious cake in peace?” he grumbles, gesturing crossly with his knife at the large slice of cake in front of him.

Mycroft bridles at the ‘lads’, staring down into his half-drunk cup of tea. He takes a silent deep breath. “John,” he says, trying to keep his voice as even as possible, “I assume there’s something you need to ask me?”

John’s eyes widen just a little, and he darts a quick glance at Lestrade. Then he shrugs. “Yeah. I want to…sort things out. About Mary. I can’t stay – Jesus, I can’t stay married to her. Sherlock said you might have a way to…speed things up.”

Mycroft tips his head to the side. “Of course. I will have the paperwork sent to you as soon as I return to London.” He glances quickly up at John’s slightly furrowed brow and worried eyes. “I do not anticipate problems. Everything should go through smoothly.”

John nods, once. “Thanks. Thanks Mycroft. I…appreciate it.”

There is a silence. Sherlock’s finished his scone and reaches for another. Mycroft feels painfully awkward and is just opening his mouth to say that he must go _(much to do, long drive back)_ when his brother’s voice forestalls him. “Lestrade tells us you had a night of drunken debauchery this week,” he says snidely.

John and Greg’s voices mingle in outrage, a strangled “Sherlock, for God’s sake,” from John and an indignant “Sherlock, you little shit, I said no such –” from Greg, but both of them are cut off by the sound of Mycroft’s chair scraping back.

“Thank you for the tea,” says Mycroft, more quietly than he had meant to. “I must get back to London.” He doesn’t look at Sherlock, at any of them, not in the eye. The front door of the cottage is still standing open, letting in the soporific droning of the bees. He is outside in just a few steps, already texting his driver.

Behind him, he hears Greg say loudly, “you really are an absolute twat sometimes, Sherlock,” but he’s already striding away, beating the honeysuckle to the side with the tip of his umbrella.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation.

“Mycroft – please don’t –” Lestrade marches down the garden path behind him, grabbing the gate as Mycroft lets it fall. He clicks it gently closed behind them as Mycroft stands waiting for his car, tall and aloof. Greg’s feet are still bare. “You don’t need to go. You didn’t even finish your tea,” he adds, attempting a smile, but it falls flat in the space between them.

Mycroft turns to him, slowly, eyes narrowed. Deliberately, he says, “John asked me to come here for the purpose of requesting his divorce paperwork. Frankly, he could have done that by text or email, saving us all a lot of time. He has now requested that paperwork. There seems little reason for further delay.”

Greg scrunches up his eyes against the sun and looks up at Mycroft directly. “Still – you’re here to see Sherlock too. Your brother –” he is interrupted by Mycroft’s humourless snort.

“Any amusement that my brother may glean from my visit has now, I believe, been extracted. I have no desire to prolong his _enjoyment_ further.”

Greg sighs. “Look, I know Sherlock’s being a bit of twat, but I honestly didn’t say – _debauchery_ ,” he mutters lamely. Fists digging into the pockets of his jeans, he stares down at the floor and seems to notice his own bare feet for the first time, scuffing the toes of his right foot along the top of his left. Mycroft looks sharply away, peering at the bend in the road. _Where the hell is the driver?_

“I do understand. I believe it is the _done thing_ to gossip needlessly with individuals’ families when any small aberration in behaviour occurs,” returns Mycroft coldly, eyes fixed on the cottage at the corner of the small street.

Greg’s voice is perfectly even, but quietly determined. “Yeah, well, I’d’ve thought you’d know Sherlock well enough by now - of course he’d present what I said in the worst possible light.” He steps into Mycroft’s line of sight, brows knitted in a stubborn frown. “I only asked if they’d heard from you. I haven’t, after all. No reply to my texts. Or calls.” He presses his lips together, then takes a half-step backwards. “Oh yeah, that reminds me.”

His footsteps as he heads towards his car are as close to stomping as a man wearing no shoes on a scrubby gravel driveway can approximate. Mycroft watches him go, wincing a little in sympathy for the soles of his feet. Greg leans into the back seat of the car and pulls Mycroft’s umbrella out with him, shutting the car door perhaps a fraction harder than he needs to. He steps gingerly back across the driveway and holds it out. “Was going to leave it here with the lads,” he adds grudgingly. “For you to pick up whenever.”

Mycroft nods once, taking the umbrella, feeling the comforting weight and shape of the handle in his palm again. He abruptly feels stupid with two umbrellas, and leans them both against the gate. He is warm – too warm – in his suit and the unseasonable sunshine. It’s a slightly greenish grey linen three-piece, appropriate for the weather, but still. Last time Mummy saw him in it, she called it his Limpopo suit. He is considering sending it to charity.

Mycroft’s phone pings. He sighs sharply as he reads the email from Anthea: _Apologies sir, message from Bailey – car’s clutch has packed in. Sending another car, will email details of driver and registration plate ASAP._

“What?” asks Greg, brown eyes scanning Mycroft’s face.

Mycroft presses his lips together. “My driver is experiencing problems. Another car will have to be sent for me. It will take some time.”

“Oh. Well –” Greg cocks his head to the side, eyeing Mycroft hesitantly. “I could – if you w…if it would be _helpful_ , I could just…” he trails off, looking to his own car.

Mycroft is opening his mouth to refuse when the keening of Sherlock’s violin makes itself heard through the still, hot air. Another three hours in Sherlock’s company is decidedly not appealing. He shifts uncomfortably and glances at Greg. “That would be most kind, Ins- _Greg_ ,” he replies. He rolls his eyes crossly as the music from Sherlock’s violin swells and soars romantically. “I imagine you will need your shoes?” he asks, hastily.

“Yeah…yeah,” Greg replies, seeming to realise the truth of this. “I’ll just go and say goodbye to the lads. Maybe get a bit more of that cake. You don’t want to say…” he sees the sour expression on Mycroft’s features and shakes his head a little, a small smile at the corner of his mouth. “Nah, ’spect not. Never mind.”

Mycroft tucks both his umbrellas under one arm and moves over to the car, texting Anthea to let her know not to bother about a replacement car. Greg is back with him rather quickly, still treading his shoes on as he walks, twisting them into place. Mycroft winces as he watches the leather being trodden down, but luckily Greg doesn’t notice. Mycroft folds himself into the passenger seat as Greg turns the engine on and gets the air conditioning going. “Bloody hell, well I didn’t really get a chance to say goodbye, the lads were a bit…occupied. With one another. Or they looked like they would be soon, anyway,” he grins, eyes crinkling with amusement.

“ _Detective Inspector_ ,” raps out Mycroft, sharply. “Unless you wish to spend your evening cleaning vomit stains out of your upholstery, I would advise you to stop talking, _now_.” He glares at Greg’s profile, but the DI is laughing openly now, loud and uninhibited.

“Alright, alright,” snorts Greg. “I understand you don’t want to hear about your brother’s sex life, but even so. Can’t begrudge ’em, at last.” Mycroft’s dark _hmmm_ makes him grin again, a quick flash of dancing brown eyes glancing away from the road, catching Mycroft unawares. The car swings out of the village and through the country lanes. “I thought they’d left it too long,” Greg muses, in the quiet. “Sometimes it’s like that, isn’t it? You’re friends for too long, it’s not worth taking things further. Just in case…in case it’s not as good. In case it ruins everything.”

Mycroft can feel Greg’s glance on the side of his face again, as he turns his head away to watch out of the passenger window. The glass is ever so slightly tinted, the sky an almost frighteningly indigo blue. There is a wry twist to his mouth as he considers Greg’s words. “I expect so,” he says, drily.

They drive in silence for a while, Mycroft’s palm caressing the smooth, familiar handle of his newly-restored umbrella. Greg sighs slightly, before drawing in a breath. “Why’s Sherlock –” he pauses. “You’re both quite…well, you know. With each other.” He sounds worried as he finishes his mangled sentence. There’s a pause. “Obviously you don’t have to…that’s a bit –”

Mycroft doesn’t know why he answers. “There is a lot of water under that bridge. I am several years older than Sherlock, and have always behaved more as a parent – a misguided parent – than as a sibling. He resents me, deeply.” His voice is bitterer and sadder than expected.

Greg waits a moment, and his voice is extremely hesitant when the next question comes. “When – when Sherlock was using…I mean, it was always you who came. At the hospital, or his flat, or wherever. Not your parents. But they’re around, aren’t they? And from what John says, they’re rolling in it – I mean, if anyone was going to sort Sherlock out…?”

Mycroft lets his gaze fall unfocused as he stares out of his window. He can almost feel the fine, unbreakable threads of his family weaving themselves around his wrists, his ankles, his mouth. There is no way to sum it up. “To tell them would be a betrayal for which Sherlock would not forgive me.” A simplification.

Greg gives a little _ah_ of acknowledgement. They are speeding down a slip road, joining the motorway, and his attention is engrossed for a few minutes as they find a place in the streaming traffic.

“Sorry for…you know. Asking. And for going on about your parents being loaded,” he adds, uncomfortably.

Mycroft stares unseeingly out of his window, tiredness rushing through him like the whispering push of surf across sand. “No…it’s true.” There’s an awkward silence. He seems hardly present as he adds, bleakly, “as children, we never wanted for anything.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey.

“Oi, sleeping beauty,” says Greg, gently. Mycroft starts awake. He doesn’t jump, but he is instantly entirely alert. He turns to see Greg smiling at him, brown eyes wide. “We’ve stopped at the services – just need to get a bottle of water and use the loo. Thought I’d let you know in case you need anything.”

“Ah. Just to stretch my legs, I think,” replies Mycroft, clearing his throat.

“Alright. I’ll leave you the keys, then. Won’t be a min,” Greg tosses over his shoulder as he clambers out of the car. He drops the car keys on the seat behind him and heads off at his brisk, shoulders-hunched walk towards the unattractive boxy building. Mycroft takes the keys and climbs more gingerly out, stretching his long legs as he stands. He locks the car and walks up and down the row of cars closest, watching idly as a father wrestles his grumpy toddler back into her carseat. He sees the flash of Greg’s silver hair in the distance and turns back to the car, fastening his seatbelt just as Greg throws himself back into the driver’s seat.

“Got you these,” says Greg firmly. “Thought you must be parched since you didn’t finish your tea earlier.” Mycroft finds a bottle of peach-flavoured sparkling water (no added sugar, says the label) and a small plastic pot of ready-to-eat blueberries and grapes thrust into his hands.

Mycroft glances at Greg’s profile while he’s busy fitting the key into the ignition. “Thank you,” he says quietly, cracking open the bottle of water. Greg turns the air conditioning back on and opens his own bottle of still water, taking a few grateful gulps. Mycroft peels back the plastic foil of the fruitbox and offers it to Greg, who takes a grape with a muttered _ta._ They eat and drink in silence for a few moments, before Mycroft offers, “I apologise for falling asleep.”

Greg’s already shaking his head before he’s finished his sentence. “You must be knackered. No worries. Even had the radio on, but you didn’t stir.”

“Since my…day off, I have been extremely tired,” says Mycroft. “I cannot understand why,” he adds with a sniff. “I slept for much longer than usual, that day.”

“I bet you did,” grins Greg. “Enough alcohol to make _you_ commit a typo…probably enough to floor an elephant.” He gives a bark of laughter at the expression on Mycroft’s face.

“The comparison is hardly a flattering one, _Inspector_ ,” protests Mycroft, coughing a little through his sip of fizzy water.

“Oh stop it, you skinny bastard,” says Greg, cocking his head and narrowing his deep brown eyes. “You know you look great.” Mycroft’s eyes are fixed on the pot of fruit balanced on his knee, into which Lestrade’s strong, brown fingers are currently dipping. He takes a blueberry and sits back, and Mycroft feels Greg’s gaze rake the side of his face. “Or maybe you don’t,” says Lestrade, more gently. “But you do. Look great, I mean,” he adds.

Mycroft turns his face away, staring out at the paintwork of the nondescript car next to them. It’s no good though, he can feel his cheeks beginning to flush.

“Guess Sherlock’s always been a bit of a shit to you,” muses Greg. “I got the thing about the cake.” He pops the blueberry into his mouth.

Mycroft doesn’t know what to say, so he keeps staring out of the window. Behind him, Greg takes a few more gulps of water and sighs. “Mycroft?”

“We should continue our journey, Greg,” Mycroft returns coldly, still not looking back from the window.

“You know he showed me pictures, right?” says Greg, and there’s an edge of amusement in his voice. “God knows why. I expect he’s got it all figured out, even if none of the rest of us have.”

Mycroft hisses and turns to look at Greg in horror. “When?”

“This afternoon. Said it was an accident, he’d left them lying around on the table. Strangely enough there were none of him, just you and your parents.”

“I’ll cancel his security detail,” mutters Mycroft darkly, turning back to his window. It’s a joke, but he feels hot all over, and perhaps the flush is creeping up his neck, now, too.

There’s a silence, and Mycroft can feel Greg staring at the side of his face again. It doesn’t help. And then there’s a swoop of uncertainty and strange familiarity when Greg grabs his arm. “You were just a teenager, Mycroft,” says Greg, squeezing his forearm gently. “Everyone’s got embarrassing old photos. And you can bet your arse there’s a reason why Sherlock conveniently edited the selection. The man looks like an alien now, bet he was a right mess as a scrawny, spotty kid.” He chuckles, his voice warm.

“I had thought they were all gone, at last,” sighs Mycroft, with a quick look at Greg. “He always finds a way.”

Greg throws back his head and laughs. “Good to know what government resources are being wasted on,” he grins. He settles himself in his seat and leans to turn the key in the ignition, reversing them smoothly out of the parking space. “Not to mention the time and attention of two of the finest brains in the country.” He throws an amused glance at Mycroft. “He’s always been an arse about the way you look, then?”

“Yes,” says Mycroft awkwardly, staring straight ahead. He can’t shake the feeling of unreality. He’s never discussed it with anyone.

“Well, he’s just being an arsehole to get at you,” says Greg, firmly. “I’ve never met anyone with better style, and you’ve nothing to worry about, believe me.” They settle back into the Saturday-afternoon motorway traffic, and he darts a glance at Mycroft. “I understand brothers are usually bastards to one another, anyway.”

Mycroft takes a moment to pick up the conversational cue. “You do not – have siblings?” he enquires. He already knows Greg doesn’t – it’s obvious – but this is what people _do_.

“Nah, only child. You can get all the cracks about how selfish and spoilt I must be out the way now, if you like,” sighs the DI, signalling to join the fast lane and checking his mirrors carefully. Once he’s moved into the lane he smiles again. “Expect you knew that though, from the background check.”

“I – I never personally reviewed it,” replies Mycroft. He’s not sure why he feels the need to reinforce the point, but he looks straight into Greg’s dark eyes before they both turn back to watch the road. “My team did a thorough check, of course, when Sherlock became…involved in your work.”

An oblique look from the corner of his eye tells Mycroft that Greg is a little surprised. “Oh, right. Well, yeah. Dad left Mum before they could have another kid, and she never… And then she died before… So yeah. Only child.”

Mycroft gives a thoughtful _hmm_ , and takes a sip of peach-flavoured water. “You were…quite young,” he states. It feels too prying just to ask, openly. _Do people do that?_

“Sixteen, yeah,” says Greg, dipping back into the middle lane to avoid what seems to be a race by a couple of cars roaring up behind. “Look at these idiots! Got a good mind to put the sirens on just to scare ’em,” he adds crossly. “Mum died and I had to live with my Uncle Trevor to avoid the Social. He was a drunk and a bastard, but Mum had managed to leave everything to me, thank God. I stayed with mates, mostly. Luckily you could join the force at seventeen then, so I got away. Got a place. Got a wife, before too long,” he adds, as an afterthought. “Christ. We were kids.”

Mycroft stares hard at the wheel-arch of a lorry next to them. The vast gap between their experiences at that age – at any age, really. He doesn’t know what to say.

Greg checks his mirrors and pulls back into the fast lane. “Must’ve been university for you, right?”

Mycroft nods. He feels awkward discussing this, overprivileged, his university experience a world away from what the young Greg was doing at the same age. “Indeed. Oxford.”

Greg senses his restraint and glances over. “Yeah? What did you study?”

Mycroft purses his lips. “Philosophy, Politics and Economics, of course, like most government drones,” he says drily. Self-deprecation is not his usual style, but it assuages his awkwardness a little.

“Fun?” asks Greg. “Always looks a bit stiff on TV, but then I watch too much _Morse_ and _Lewis_.” He grins. “Ought to find something better to do with myself than watch detective shows. Love having them on while I cook a roast on a Sunday, though. Gives me something to yell at. They never follow procedure.”

“You usually take Sundays away from work, then?” asks Mycroft, quick to move the conversation away from his university days. It’s only as he finishes his sentence that he realises he sounds almost judgemental, implying laziness.

Greg smiles. “I try and get one day a week.” He flicks his eyes to Mycroft’s for just a second, a quick glint of concern. “You don’t?”

Mycroft shakes his head. “I work at home.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t really imagine cosy family Sunday lunches with Sherlock,” says Greg thoughtfully. He grins in response to Mycroft’s wry noise of agreement. “Nah, I get it, I really do. I just like having a whole day where I do something else. Stop thinking about it. Usually it’s just doing the washing, bit of shopping, paying the bills, cooking lunch, that sort of thing. But it does help.”

Mycroft doesn’t say anything, for the simple reason that he has nothing to add to this. He slept through the mother of all hangovers on his last real day off. He can’t remember the one before that.

“You know –” Greg stops, and Mycroft darts a quick glance at him. He’s chewing his bottom lip, and he takes his left hand off the wheel to run it through his silver hair. “Just say no if – because I think sometimes I’m too – I don’t mean to but I think I –” he stops again, sighing exasperatedly. “I just mean, you’re welcome any Sunday. For lunch. Or to watch detective shows or whatever,” he finishes, and Mycroft can hear the smile in his voice. A check in his peripheral vision, though, shows that Greg hasn’t stopped the nervous worrying at his lip.

Mycroft’s hands tighten around the bottle of water, and he shifts his feet slightly. Somehow, this seems to _matter_. His stomach feels heavy. “I – I’d like that,” he says. Perhaps they can both hear the surprise in his voice.

“I’m working tomorrow,” says Greg regretfully. “Had to take my Sunday on my Saturday, if you see what I mean.” He sighs. “Only at home. If I go in someone’ll get murdered.”

“What a strange superstition,” says Mycroft. He can hear how stiff and formal he sounds, his intention clashing with his experience in joking with others, but Greg laughs loudly.

“Yeah, well, born out of long experience,” he replies ruefully. “You’ll be working at home too?”

Mycroft nods. And then he says something that he simply didn’t plan, or expect. “We could work at home together. At the same home. You would have to come to my flat. Some of the files I need to use…” He’s regretting having spoken already, the hated flush heating his cheeks again. Not that he gave himself permission to say these words in the first place. His hands tighten further on the almost-empty water bottle and the plastic makes a crackling protest. Greg is looking over at him, and Mycroft can see his disbelieving grin out of the corner of his eye. “Watch the road, Lestrade,” he adds, sharply.

Greg snorts, transferring his attention back to the motorway unspooling in front of them. “Yes Mycroft. And yes, I’d love to work at yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I would just like to state that when Greg says Sherlock "looks like an alien now", his opinions in no way reflect those of the author!


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Sunday.

Mycroft has completed so little work this morning that he is flustered and cross with himself. Instead of settling to work he has tidied his entire flat (even though it is in perfect order after being professionally cleaned, as it is every two days), reordered the suit jackets in his walk-in wardrobe, and prepared a full roast dinner. The chicken and carrots are beautifully cooked and he’s just starting to worry that Greg won’t turn up on time when the buzzer goes. The video display lights up, and Mycroft picks up the intercom telephone. “Alright Mycroft?” grins Greg. He can’t see Mycroft but he’s staring right into the camera and his dark eyes look enormous. Mycroft simply presses the button to allow him entry.

Greg is delivered to his door by the on-duty member of his security team, who waits for Mycroft’s nod before walking away down the corridor. Greg lets out a relieved sigh as Mycroft shuts the door behind them. “Bloody hell, I felt like showing him my badge,” he grins. “He wasn’t up for small talk.”

Mycroft gives a careful smile. “They are very…protective,” he says, simply. Greg cocks an eyebrow at him.

“‘Minor role in the British Government’ my  _ arse _ ,” he says. Mycroft is silent, staring at him stonily. Greg snorts a laugh and steps further into the flat. Grey jeans, long-sleeved white t-shirt and a grey blazer, today. “Oh my God, what smells amazing?” he asks, following his nose unerringly towards the kitchen. “You didn’t say you were going to cook.”

Mycroft is suddenly shy, but he’s saved by the necessity of making sure the chicken’s still acceptable. He takes the carrots and roast potatoes out of the oven, placing them on the wide wooden chopping board which overlaps the edge of one of the kitchen counters. 

“Roasties – Mycroft, you know the way to a man’s heart,” says Greg, flicking him a grin as he bends to look in the oven. “I’ll get the chicken out to rest, yeah?”

Mycroft nods, his chest a little too tight to reply. He opens the fridge, takes out a packet of purple sprouting broccoli and dumps it into a saucepan, covering it with water from the boiling water tap.

“Is that one of those fancy boiling water taps?” asks Greg curiously, coming to look at it. “Always wanted one of those. Guess they cost an arm and a leg though. I’ll try and remember not to wash my hands with it later,” he adds, sheepishly.

Mycroft sets the broccoli on the hob and takes down a couple of plain white plates to warm in the heating oven. Greg’s searching for cutlery, opening various drawers. “Left,” prompts Mycroft. Greg finds the drawer he wants and looks over to him again, hand hovering over the forks. 

“Where are we sitting?” he asks.

“Well – I thought – there’s a small dining table in the living room and I understand that  _ Inspector Morse _ is currently on ITV3…” Mycroft trails off and flicks his gaze to Greg. The half-amused, half-… _ fond? _ look that Greg is giving him through his eyelashes makes him look away again, quickly. 

“Brilliant,” is all Greg says, clattering together enough cutlery for the two of them. He steps out into the living room.

Mycroft takes the broccoli off the hob and spoons out plenty of the rich chicken juices into a gravy boat. He has bought boxsets of every series of  _ Inspector Morse _ and  _ Inspector Lewis  _ on DVD, but they are currently sitting untouched in the cabinet beside the television.

“Where’s the remote?” asks Greg, from the other room.

“Coffee table.” He pours the carrots and roast potatoes into one large ceramic dish, and broccoli into another. 

“Oh yeah, got it, sorry,” replies Greg. “I’ll get ITV3 on –” There’s a pause and then he reappears at the door of the kitchen. “Ah, great – shall we just take bits off the chicken here? Probably easier than carrying it through.”

Mycroft nods and hands him the carving knife. He bends down to take the warmed plates out of the oven.

Greg makes short work of carving the chicken, and Mycroft takes a few slices of breastmeat; Greg prefers the legs and looks like Christmas has come when Mycroft says he won’t want one. They take a few trips carrying it all through to the living room, and Greg piles some of everything onto his plate and pours gravy over the top. “This is brilliant, Mycroft, really,” he smiles, his brown eyes deep and warm. “Thanks so much.”

“You haven’t tasted it yet,” says Mycroft, looking fixedly at the salt and pepper grinders. 

“True,” concedes Greg. “Might be shit.” He laughs as Mycroft glares at him, and takes a big mouthful of chicken. “Mmm…oh, delicious. Perfect. Thank you.”

Mycroft swallows hard, and begins cutting his meat.

After a few more mouthfuls, Greg says, “I’m absolutely starving, finally managed to get out for another run this morning. Haven’t been for months. D’you remember at mine I told you about that new DC, Morton? Turns out she runs, so she dragged me out.”

Mycroft’s back is very straight. His gaze catches on Greg’s hands, strong and dextrous as they manipulate the cutlery. “So you have become…” he hesitates, a little unsure, “– friends?”

“Yeah, yeah, she’s alright.” Greg nods, then his eyes come up and he gives Mycroft a rather thoughtful look. “Although I swear she was actually born in the mid-’90s. It’s uncanny. Keep feeling like we must be violating child labour laws.”

Mycroft flushes a little and looks back down at his own food. He spears some broccoli.

“I need to make sure I go more often,” sighs Greg. “And some lads from work have been bothering me about joining the five-a-side football on a Sunday morning. You know what it’s like though – when Sunday’s my only day…” he takes another roast potato. “Don’t really want to commit to it every week. What about you?” he asks. “Looks like you work out.”

Mycroft gulps some water and looks over at him. “I do run,” he says hesitantly. Greg’s grin is wide, his eyes interested. “Only indoors, I mean, on the treadmill,” he corrects himself.

“Yeah? What’s your distance?”

“I have almost reached half-marathon now,” says Mycroft, thinking of his recent insomniac nights.

“Wow, that’s brilliant Mycroft. You prefer treadmill, then?”

Mycroft nods a little, staring at Greg’s water glass. “Well – you have seen the security – it simply causes problems…”

“Ah, bloody hell, I get it,” sighs Greg. “Sometimes I do wonder if the criminals I’m nicking recognise the sweaty bloke toiling round the park at 7am on a Sunday.”

Mycroft can’t help a smile. “I am certain they do not,” he says quietly.

“Nah, well, not lately, anyway. Maybe once your security team have got used to me we can go together,” suggests Greg, swallowing his last mouthful and tidying his cutlery together. Mycroft pushes the roast potatoes towards him questioningly, but Greg massages his stomach and shakes his head. “Oof, couldn’t possibly,” he mutters. “Sounds like you’re much better than me, running, though,” he adds.

“I’m not sure how well treadmill distances transfer to outdoor running,” says Mycroft, cautiously.

“Well it’s going to be a while until I’m even ready for a 10k, so you’ve got plenty of time,” smiles Greg. There’s a pause, and then he sets his hands down flat on the table. “Let me get the washing up,” he says decisively, standing and collecting together the plates.

Mycroft stands too, picking up two of the dishes of leftovers. “There  _ is _ a dishwasher,” he calls after Greg as he marches off to the kitchen.

“Ah, damn,” Greg calls back. “I wanted a go with that fancy boiling water tap.”

Mycroft joins him in the kitchen, unable to stop himself laughing quietly at Greg’s fascination with the tap. He reaches down a mug and hands it to Greg. “Make yourself a cup of tea with it,” he suggests, receiving a broad grin in response. “Earl Grey or Assam?”

“Earl Grey please,” says Greg with enthusiasm, and Mycroft holds out a caddy of teabags. Greg takes one and pops it in the mug. “Never pegged you as using teabags,” he laughs.

Mycroft smiles and flushes a little, then opens the large cupboard at eye level which is full of at least twelve different kinds of leaf tea, two different teapots and a full set of fine bone china. Greg looks at it for a few seconds and throws his head back, laughing hard. “I knew it,” he says, his hand lingering on Mycroft’s back for a moment. “Where’s the coffee cupboard?”

Mycroft shoots him a quick smirk and simply points to a cafétière and a bialetti, sitting on the countertop. “The coffee is in the fridge,” he says quietly.

Greg chuckles to himself again. “Nice. You having a cuppa?”

“No, thank you, I must start work,” says Mycroft regretfully. “You have brought everything you need?”

“Yeah, yeah, got my files and all that,” replies Greg comfortably. “I’ll set up on the sofa, if that’s okay – unless you want it?”

“Oh,” hesitates Mycroft. “I had planned to use my study – my desk –”

“Nah, come and sit in the living room with me,” smiles Greg. “Surely you can watch a bit of  _ Morse _ while you rule the world.”

“Then I shall use the living room table,” returns Mycroft. “The sofa is entirely yours.”

The next few hours are peaceable, nearly silent apart from Greg periodically abusing the lack of procedural rigour of the fictional Oxford police department. Neither of them notices it getting dark, until Mycroft at last realises that his laptop screen is hurting his eyes. He stands and stretches, turning the lights on. Greg stretches too, letting out a surprised  _ oh _ when he realises it’s past eight in the evening. “Damn, that went quickly,” he says. “Got so much done. But sorry for staying so late. I should really get going.”

“Please allow me to call my car for you,” says Mycroft. “It is late, and you must need to prepare for the week ahead.”

“Well –” Greg wavers for a moment, and Mycroft picks up his work phone, dropping a quick text to his on-call driver, with details of his passenger.

“He will be waiting at the door downstairs,” says Mycroft, his gaze tangling briefly with Greg’s.

Greg finishes packing his files into his backpack and gestures questioningly to the corridor. “Just pop to the loo –”

“Ah, yes, first on the left,” replies Mycroft, stepping into the kitchen to begin stacking the dishwasher.

When Greg returns, he pops his head into the kitchen. “I’ll be off.”

Mycroft walks him to the door, concentrating on the feeling of the carpet under his socked feet. “Thank you very much for coming,” he says, a little stiffly.

Greg’s smile is wide and terrifyingly genuine. “Thank you,” he says, and Mycroft doesn’t even register the moment he steps close, their chests suddenly pressed together, strong arms slipping around Mycroft’s back in a gentle hug. “Haven’t had such a brilliant Sunday in years,” he says quietly into Mycroft’s ear. And then he’s stepping away, and the door has closed behind him.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A trip and some correspondence.

**[08:03]** **_– Lovely day yesterday. Thanks again for the delicious roast. My place next Sunday? My turn to cook! G_ **

[10:42]  _ – Unfortunately I shall be flying to India on Saturday morning, but once I return another invitation would be most welcome. MH _

**[10:50]** **_– Ah, shame. When are you back? G_ **

[13:19]  _ – Thursday 23rd April. MH _

**[13:44]** **_– Bloody hell, long trip. All for work? Lunch at mine Sunday 26th then? G_ **

[19:02]  _ – A number of cities accompanying a diplomatic tour, followed by trade talks. Sunday 26th April is now reserved in my calendar. MH _

**[19:05]** **_– Great! I’ll practice to make sure my roast-making skills are up to snuff… G_ **

**[19:53]** **_– Can I email you while you’re away? G_ **

[23:59]  _ – If you wish to. Anthea will be in touch with my secure email address and some security instructions. MH _

**[00:03]** **_– Of course I ‘wish to’, I’ll miss being able to chat to you. Plus I’ll need to keep you updated on Sherlock’s activities. You going to sleep soon? I’m knackered and about to drop off. G_ **

[00:12]  _ – Preparing for a run. MH _

**[00:14]** **_– Insomniac. Hope you sleep well when you do. G_ **

*

**From:** Lestrade, Greg

**To:** Holmes, Mycroft

**Date:** Sun, Apr 5, 2015 at 11:43 AM

**Subject:** Hello

Hi Mycroft!

How are you doing? Got all the security stuff installed as per Anthea’s instructions. Hope the flight went well and you were able to sleep on the plane? I usually can’t, too many other people around. Although maybe you were on a private jet, or one of those double-decker planes with the private cabins upstairs…like most minor government employees.

Thought I’d drop you an email since it’s Sunday and I’m cooking a roast – made me think of you. I kept up with my resolution of the other week and went out for another run with DC Morton early this morning. She’s way better than me, really, but knows how to yell at me so I keep up (just about)! Think I’m going to feel it later though – legs are already starting to ache.

Planning to curl up on the sofa this afternoon.  _ Morse _ is on in a bit and I’ve been slowly struggling through a French textbook/online course that I need to do some homework for later. Learnt it for a couple of years at school but never got very good. Didn’t carry on after I joined the Force, but always wanted to try again with it. Mum took me to France, once, when I was little. Just camping, but it was a great trip.

Hope your Sunday’s alright and not too busy – although I just checked the time difference and realised it’s nearly evening for you already. Hopefully your hotel has a treadmill for when you can’t sleep!

Email me soon,

Greg

 

**From:** Holmes, Mycroft

**To:** Lestrade, Greg

**Date:** Tues, Apr 7, 2015 at 23:59 PM

**Subject:** RE: Hello

Dear Greg,

Thank you for your email message. It is good to hear that the security programs are working correctly. Please forgive my slowness in replying: I have been busy.

This hotel does indeed have a small gym available for 24-hour use, which has been very helpful. I ran more than thirteen miles on the treadmill last night, for the first time. I am glad to hear that you have been enjoying your runs with Detective Constable Morton. Have you been going more than once a week?

We could practice French conversation together sometimes, if it would be helpful.

Tomorrow we are leaving Mumbai. The internet connection may be a little less reliable in the coming days.

Mycroft

 

**From:** Lestrade, Greg

**To:** Holmes, Mycroft

**Date:** Weds, Apr 8, 2015 at 20:08 PM

**Subject:** RE: Hello

Hi Mycroft,

(Mycroft. I need a nickname for you. Myc?) Wow, you sneakily did a half-marathon! Amazing! I’m a bit worried you’re not sleeping though. Have you seen a doctor?

Heard from John earlier, he and Sherlock are still at the cottage (I assume you know) but working a live case now – not my fault, someone from the local police brought it to Sherlock. Found out who he was from gossip in the village. They seem to be enjoying it though… 

Of course you speak French, although I imagine it’s only one of plenty of languages. How many? It’s an amazing talent to have.

Yeah, I’ve sworn to Jenny (Morton) I’ll go for a run with her at least twice a week from now on, but I’m aiming for three times really. Thinking of giving in to the lads at work about the five-a-side football, too. I’ve been doing so little exercise and at my age I’m lucky I’m not twice the size (job keeps me on my toes, but not regularly enough).

What’s your new hotel like? Had any good food? And have you been able to take any time off?

Seems like a long time until you’re back home.

Cheers,

Greg

 

**From:** Lestrade, Greg

**To:** Holmes, Mycroft

**Date:** Sun, Apr 12, 2015 at 13:32 PM

**Subject:** RE: Hello

Hi Myc,

Hope all’s OK. Sunday again. Jenny and I managed 5k at the park this morning – nothing to what you’re doing, of course, but I was pretty happy with it anyway!

Two weeks until I cook you that roast.

Email me again soon, it would be good to hear from you.

Greg

 

**From:** Holmes, Mycroft

**To:** Lestrade, Greg

**Date:** Tues, Apr 14, 2015 at 23:06 PM

**Subject:** RE: Hello

Dear Greg,

My sincere apologies for the delay in my reply. I have been travelling regularly and the internet connection has been less than reliable, which has made both work and other commitments somewhat difficult.

Your emails were most welcome, although I must insist that you do  _ not _ call me ‘Myc’. It is what my mother calls me when she wishes to be particularly infuriating, plus what one of the upper sixth prefects used to call me at boarding school. My name does not particularly lend itself to shortening. Sherlock used to call me ‘My’ as a very small child, but it would be strange to hear that again after so many years.

I am receiving regular updates on Sherlock and John’s activities. I understand they solved the local case quite quickly, and that you have been sending them some interesting problems. Thank you.

The food has been excellent, although I must admit that I am looking forward with anticipation to the Sunday lunch you plan to cook. No time off. One day, perhaps when I retire, I shall return to all the countries I have (supposedly) visited and see them properly at last.

Congratulations to you and Jenny for your joint 5k run.

Best wishes,

Mycroft

 

**From:** Lestrade, Greg

**To:** Holmes, Mycroft

**Date:** Weds, Apr 15, 2015 at 22:56 PM

**Subject:** RE: Hello

Hi Mycroft,

Aw, shame about ‘Myc’, I rather liked it, although ‘My’ is very cute… Can’t believe you went to a boarding school with prefects and all that. Sounds pretty awful. And surely that left Sherlock all on his own?

You didn’t say whether you’d seen a doctor about your insomnia. Seriously, it can’t be healthy to be getting by on so little sleep. Are you still listening to audiobooks as you run? What are you listening to at the moment?

The idea of you retiring is…well, it’s pretty weird. Are you even allowed to retire? Don’t you know too much? Won’t they be worried you’ll write a tell-all autobiography?!

Hope you’re alright and travelling safely. I’ll be out on Friday night – a few of us from work are going down the pub. Things have been really tight lately (too many cases, not enough manpower, always too much paperwork) so I thought it’d be good to have a team night out, let everyone blow off steam a bit. We’ve invited other halves, so I’ll finally be able to meet Jenny’s girlfriend, Sam. I’ve heard all about her already! Doubtless Sally will try to set me up with another of her horrible friends. Watch this space… 

Hope to hear from you soon,

Greg

 

**From:** Lestrade, Greg

**To:** Holmes, Mycroft

**Date:** Sat, Apr 18, 2015 at 01:27 AM

**Subject:** RE: Hello

Hi My,

Only just home from the pub although the tube was still working (such a lightweight these days, its only half past one!)

She did try and set me up with one of her friends. Justin, he seems nice, he’s Canadian. Lawyer. Fucks sake though he’s 36 and i’m nearly 

At least Sam was nice. i’m glad she and jennyre together, they seem great. You need a good partner in this job…someone who understands. Sm’s a secondary teacher and she says she spends just as long marking int he evenings as Jenny does working extra hours, so it works.

It works for some people.

Less than a week until you’re back in the UK now, although still more than a week until Sunday roast. Email me backs oon. Miss you,

Greg

 

**From:** Holmes, Mycroft

**To:** Lestrade, Greg

**Date:** Sun, Apr 19, 2015 at 19:04 PM

**Subject:** RE: Hello

Dear Greg,

I admit to ignobly enjoying your last email. Are you awake yet? 

Headache?

Mycroft

P.S. No, ‘My’ is too strange.

 

**From:** Lestrade, Greg

**To:** Holmes, Mycroft

**Date:** Sun, Apr 19, 2015 at 13:40 PM

**Subject:** RE: Hello

Don’t gloat, Mycroft. Remember you made a typo when you texted me drunk…I have evidence!

Yes, a headache. Not going for a run today. Just thinking about getting out of bed to make a cup of tea. Desperately need it but the kitchen seems very far away.

Greg

 

**From:** Holmes, Mycroft

**To:** Lestrade, Greg

**Date:** Sun, Apr 19, 2015 at 19:28 PM

**Subject:** RE: Hello

Greg,

You need water before you start drinking tea. At least a pint, to start with, and some toast.

Mycroft

 

**From:** Lestrade, Greg

**To:** Holmes, Mycroft

**Date:** Sun, Apr 19, 2015 at 14:15 PM

**Subject:** RE: Hello

You’re quick to respond! Got a rare free evening? Alright, alright, I’m heeding your advice about water and toast (just a bit of Marmite to liven it up slightly).

Jesus, my legs feel shaky…never letting Donovan buy me shots again.

Greg

 

**From:** Holmes, Mycroft

**To:** Lestrade, Greg

**Date:** Sun, Apr 19, 2015 at 19:59 PM

**Subject:** RE: Hello

Greg,

Not free, unfortunately, just waiting for a delayed dinner meeting to begin. The minister in question has been stuck in traffic for some time.

Mycroft

 

**From:** Lestrade, Greg

**To:** Holmes, Mycroft

**Date:** Sun, Apr 19, 2015 at 14:35 PM

**Subject:** RE: Hello

Ah, annoying, another late night for you then. Where are you having dinner? Posh hotel? Send me a picture :)

Greg

 

**From:** Holmes, Mycroft

**To:** Lestrade, Greg

**Date:** Sun, Apr 19, 2015 at 20:13 PM

**Subject:** RE: Hello

Greg,

The view across the city is quite magnificent, especially at sunset. The private dining room is not quite in the penthouse suite, but we are on Floor 26. 

Mycroft

Attachment: <DL00356.jpg>

 

**From:** Lestrade, Greg

**To:** Holmes, Mycroft

**Date:** Sun, Apr 19, 2015 at 14:48 PM

**Subject:** RE: Hello

Wow, Mycroft, it’s bloody gorgeous! I know you’re not getting a chance to explore, but it’s amazing anyway. You should take a selfie against that sunset just to prove you’re there :) Bet you’ve had to get into black tie and everything… 

Greg

 

**From:** Holmes, Mycroft

**To:** Lestrade, Greg

**Date:** Sun, Apr 19, 2015 at 20:27 PM

**Subject:** RE: Hello

Greg,

I don’t believe I take ‘selfies’. Minister just arriving.

Best,

Mycroft

 

**From:** Lestrade, Greg

**To:** Holmes, Mycroft

**Date:** Sun, Apr 19, 2015 at 15:19 PM

**Subject:** RE: Hello

Ah shame, Mycroft! Bet you look spiffy all dressed up (more than usual, anyway). Hope dinner goes well.

Don’t think I’m going to fancy cooking a full roast this week. Only seven days until you’re here.

Love,

Greg

 

**From:** Lestrade, Greg

**To:** Holmes, Mycroft

**Date:** Weds, Apr 22, 2015 at 21:17 PM

**Subject:** RE: Hello

Alright, Mycroft? Haven’t heard from you for a few days. Hope all went well with your dinner the other night. What time are you flying tomorrow?

Love,

Greg

 

**From:** Holmes, Mycroft

**To:** Lestrade, Greg

**Date:** Thur, Apr 23, 2015 at 05:13 AM

**Subject:** RE: Hello

Dear Greg,

All went satisfactorily at the dinner meeting. I fly this evening, landing in the UK around 9pm.

Best,

Mycroft

 

**From:** Lestrade, Greg

**To:** Holmes, Mycroft

**Date:** Thur, Apr 23, 2015 at 19:00 PM

**Subject:** RE: Hello

Safe travels Mycroft. Let me know when you’ve landed.

Love,

Greg

*

[21:46]  _ – Some welcoming British rain. I do not have my umbrella with me. MH _

**[21:47]** **_– Thank you for letting me know you’re back! Look forward to seeing you on Sunday. G_ **


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of travel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I couldn't post this weekend my dears, I was hiking in the Lake District! I hope this chapter makes up for it <3

[07:02] _– I appear to have contracted a disgusting cold following my trip to India. Should I still come today? MH_

**[07:11]** **_– Yeah, no bother. Just at the park for run. See you about 12! G_ **

 

**[08:31]** **_– 5k complete (very slow). Had a thought while I was running – if you're feeling rubbish, want me to come and get lunch ready at yours? You won't even have to get out of bed if you don't want to! G_ **

[08:46] _– I will be fine. That is too much to ask. If you come here I should cook. MH_

**[08:50]** **_– Nonsense, don't want your germs all over the roast! Plus it'll give me a chance to play with the boiling water tap again :) I’ll just go home and have a shower, then be over in a bit. G_ **

[08:59] _– Thank you, Greg. It is much appreciated. MH_

 

Mycroft is hot and shaky as he does up his shirt cuffs and gives his hair one more rough dry with the towel, before combing it carefully. He's had a cool shower and drunk plenty of cold water – he wanted a warm drink for his painfully sore throat, but couldn’t take the heat. He doesn’t fancy the idea of breakfast. He stares into the mirror as he puts the comb down. Awful – his eyes are glittering unnaturally bright, cheeks flushed feverishly high. He dives for a tissue as another sneeze overtakes him. He's only just binned it and washed his hands when the front door buzzer goes.

Greg's huge, warm brown eyes are staring straight into the camera again. Mycroft picks up the handset. “Are you sure you want to come in and catch this?” he asks, voice congested.

“Ah, as long it's not some sort of rare and horrible tropical disease, I reckon I'll cope,” grins Greg, long eyelashes fluttering.

Mycroft suppresses a little smile and presses the button to admit him. His hand runs nervously through his hair, and he realises he hasn't had time to put on a waistcoat, jacket or socks. He can't contemplate it right now, he's boiling from the inside out. Starting to sweat is not an option.

He opens the door as he hears Greg's voice approaching down the corridor, obviously still trying to warm the security team up to him.

Greg looks fresh and awake after his run, wearing a dark indigo-blue shirt and his grey jeans. He's obviously just washed his hair too, and it is longer than when he last visited. Mycroft's hand clenches a little; his skin prickles with how it would feel to run his fingers through the cool, damp silver hair. He nods to Security and shuts the door behind Greg.

“Ah, Mycroft, it’s so good to see you,” Greg says, voice warm. He puts down the big Tesco eco-bag he’s carrying and grasps Mycroft’s forearms with his hands, before pulling him closer for a hug.

Mycroft stands stiffly, back very straight. “Don’t, Greg, you’ll catch this–” he mutters, but he can’t help inhaling just a little, letting Greg’s scent envelop him.

“Stop worrying,” says Greg, exhaling on a little laugh and gently squeezing Mycroft. His head is tipped inwards on Mycroft’s shoulder. “I don’t care. Relax. I haven’t seen you for bloody ages and I want a hug.”

Suddenly Mycroft is too hot, and everything feels unstable. The world seems to tilt slightly as he lets himself relax into the circle of Greg’s strong embrace. He bends his neck and lets Greg’s cool, damp hair brush his cheek as he tightens his arms around Greg’s back. Greg exhales and then breathes in deeply, a great sigh of relief. Mycroft is drinking in Greg’s warm and slightly spicy scent, trying not to be obvious about how deeply he’s inhaling as he buries his nose as close to the soft skin of Greg’s neck as possible.

Greg takes one more breath and pulls away, just a little, although he keeps his hands around Mycroft’s biceps. “Christ, Mycroft,” he says, looking worriedly into his face, “you’re burning hot. Are you sure this is just a cold? Might be ’flu.”

Reality ripples slightly as Mycroft feels the back of Greg’s hand on his forehead, and then the palm, Greg’s fingertips soft against his temple. Greg’s hand and fingers are inexplicably freezing cold.  “Nah, your temperature definitely doesn’t feel right,” frowns Greg. “I don’t think you should be up and about.” Mycroft sways a little, his bare feet assaulted by the painfully scratchy material of the carpet. Why has he never noticed before how awful his carpet is? Greg’s hand is gentle as he puts an arm around him, guiding him further into the flat. “Which way’s your room?” he murmurs. “Must be through here. This way, come on.”

“Greg, you mustn’t,” says Mycroft, but it comes out as just a whisper. “If I have ’flu you mustn’t…”

“Shush,” says Greg firmly, tightening his gentle hold on Mycroft’s waist as he guides him through the door to his bedroom. “Come on, lie down for a bit, try and sleep some more.” Mycroft is sitting on the bed now, he doesn’t know how, and Greg’s hand is gently urging at his knees, helping him to lie down. “I’ll bring you some lunch in a bit,” promises Greg, but Mycroft shakes his head vehemently. His teeth are starting to chatter, and the last thing he wants is food. Greg looks at him sadly. “Bugger, you don’t look good. I reckon you’re in for it. Can I–” he leans over, and Mycroft feels the touch of those freezing fingers at the top button of his shirt. “You’re already boiling and I don’t think that’s helping.”

Mycroft nods, although his head is swimming, and Greg undoes the top two buttons. “I’m going to get you some water and ibuprofen, okay? I assume you’ve got stuff in the bathroom. Might take your temperature down enough to get some more sleep.”

Mycroft lies very still, trying not to let his limbs shake or his teeth chatter. A hot wave of embarrassment engulfs him, and he mutters an apology when Greg comes back, holding a pack of ibuprofen and a glass of cold water.

“Ah, stop it,” says Greg, smiling. “Stop worrying.” He helps Mycroft take two ibuprofen and a draught of water. Every movement feels impossibly difficult. All Mycroft’s muscles are aching, throbbing.

Greg just sits next to him on the bed, watching him. Mycroft’s eyes slide closed against the terribly bright daylight. Eventually, his breathing lengthens into sleep.

*

Mycroft swims slowly back to consciousness at the touch of Greg’s palm to his forehead and the sound of his voice. “How’re you feeling?”

Mycroft tests his voice, but his throat is painfully sore, his nose full and stuffy. He frowns crossly and struggles to sit up. Greg reaches out a strong arm and piles pillows behind him, reaching for a tissue box. He drops it next to Mycroft on the duvet and passes him another glass of water. Mycroft takes a few sips, wincing at the rasping pain in his throat. “Not so good then,” supplies Greg. “Woke you up because it’s about time for your next lot of ibuprofen. Your temperature doesn’t feel quite as bad as it did earlier, but probably still worth keeping up with the dosage.”

Mycroft nods, tiredly. He feels too defeated to try and speak. Passively, he accepts the two pills and chokes them down with water, through a throat that feels about three sizes too small.

“Want me to help you to the bathroom?” asks Greg rather awkwardly. “You’ve had a lot of water…” he trails off, staring at the dark blue duvet cover.

Mycroft sighs, but nods miserably. He doesn’t anticipate being able to walk terribly well, feeling as he does. Greg takes his hands and pulls him gently to the edge of the bed, where they pause for a few moments while Mycroft closes his eyes and waits for the dizziness to ebb. Then Greg’s pulling him up, and tucking his arm around him again, fingers tight and warm around his waist, through the soft silk-cotton blend of his shirt. “Just a few more steps,” murmurs Greg, gently. At the doorway to the bathroom, they pause, and Mycroft is ashamed to find that he’s clinging to Greg. He marshals all his strength and steps into the bathroom, closing the door.

After he’s been to the loo he brushes his teeth, which makes him feel a little more human, and splashes his face with cold water several times. His muscles are shaking with the effort of holding him up by the time he opens the door again, and Greg can obviously see it in the strained lines of his face. He holds out both hands and Mycroft allows himself to be supported, to be ushered back to bed. When he’s sitting on the edge again, Greg asks, gently, “are you okay in these clothes? Have you got some pyjamas? I can get them for you, and I’ll – I can turn my back, or leave the room–”

Mycroft, still holding Greg’s forearm, motions tiredly to the chest of drawers. Greg turns and, without letting go, searches a couple of drawers before finding Mycroft’s navy silk pyjama bottoms and a white cotton t-shirt. He puts them on the duvet next to Mycroft and turns around, gently detaching his arm from Mycroft’s grip.

Mycroft manages to undo his trousers, shimmy them down and kick them feebly off, then laboriously drags his pyjama bottoms on. It _is_ a lot more comfortable. He starts on the buttons of his shirt, but his fingers are shaking, and he feels dizziness overtaking him again. “Greg,” he whispers, and then steady, strong arms are holding him up by the shoulders. “I can’t,” he mutters.

“Alright,” soothes Greg, fingertips stroking Mycroft’s shoulderblades. “You’ll be alright like that? Or want me to…?”

Eyes closed, Mycroft nods once, head lolling with the effort. The shirt, hot and restrictive, is clammy from the hours of sleep, of sweating into it. His eyelids feel too heavy to open, but it’s a relief as he feels Greg’s fingers begin to work the buttons, one by one. When Greg finally peels the material away from his skin, he gives a little sigh of thanks. “You’ll need to lift your arms for me,” says Greg gently, but Mycroft purses his lips.

“This’ll do,” he mutters. He’s so dizzy he can’t stay upright.

As he’s letting himself fall backwards, Greg catches him at the shoulderblades again. Every inch of Mycroft’s skin feels tender, flayed. Every one of Greg’s fingerprints feels like a deep, radiating bruise. “Wait, just a minute, I’m sorry, just a little bit more water,” coaxes Greg, holding the glass to Mycroft’s lips. “Just one more sip, don’t want to be dehydrated, one more, then you can sleep.”

The last thing Mycroft remembers as he drifts off to sleep is Greg helping him swing his bone-achingly tired legs onto the bed.

*

The morning light is grey and ghastly, but it doesn’t cause an eye-splittingly piercing headache as it did yesterday. Mycroft blinks gummily up from the depths of sleep, and clutches his forehead. He doesn’t feel too warm – he doesn’t think – but then how would he know? Tentatively, he pulls himself up in the bed, and arranges a couple of pillows so he can stay sitting. The aching seems to have passed. He’s left with a rough, sore throat and a horribly stuffed-up nose. He blinks blearily, slowly. He’ll need to get up to go to the loo soon, but a couple of minutes to adjust, first. On the bedside table are a large glass of water, the pack of ibuprofen, and both his phones (plugged in, charged).

Greg. Greg did all this. When did he leave? Mycroft makes a frantic grab for both his phones. There’s a message from Anthea on his work phone _(Sorry to hear you’re not well, Sir, I have rearranged your diary and the security team will be checking on you regularly)_ and one from Greg on his personal mobile.

**[06:43]** **_So sorry I won’t be around this morning – was going to go in later, but got an urgent call, murder case. Hope you’re feeling a bit better. Left you water, pills etc. by the bed. Ended up making a chicken soup out of the roast stuff yesterday, it’s in a Tupperware in the fridge. I’ll come over later to see how you’re doing (murder permitting). G xx_ **


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK guys - in this chapter there is mention of a REALLY distressing case that Greg's working on. Of course it's a murder case, but it involves kids. There are absolutely NO gory aspects described here (and the crime scene is only mentioned, NOT 'visited' in the story) but I want to be really clear about this straight off. Please steer clear if you think this will trigger or upset you. 
> 
> Also, this chapter includes the first foray into Mature/Explicit writing in this story and I'm actually...weirdly nervous about it (even though I've already written loads of Johnlock...!). Hope you like the chapter. Love you guys <3

[12:54] _This soup is delicious Greg, thank you. I am sorry your Sunday turned out to be nursing and cooking for me. I had no idea it was flu. My sincere apologies that you may now contract it. MH_

**[13:07]** **_Glad it tastes alright! And that you’re up to eating and typing again. Don’t do any work. G_ **

[13:10] _I must find a way to say thank you for everything you have done. MH_

**[13:16]** **_You can nurse me in return when I get the Indian flu! G_ **

[13:19] _Not a chance. MH_

**[13:22] _Oi, bastard! I’ll be round later. Still no idea when. Got to go. G_ **

 

Mycroft digs the heels of his hands into his itching, swollen eyes and stands up from the table, shuffling slowly into the kitchen to dump his bowl and spoon in the sink. He blows his nose _again_ as he drags his feet back into the bedroom, then to the ensuite beyond it. His nose is red and the skin around it is starting to hurt from all the tissues he’s used. The only thought in his brain now is _shower, please_. His skin feels sticky, clammy with the feverish tossing and turning of the day before. He throws off the silk pyjama bottoms with disgust.

As the stingingly hot water beats down, steam fills the room and he’s soon able to breathe normally. He tips his face back into the spray as he massages shower gel into his chest and shoulders.

A thought occurs. _Where did Greg sleep?_ It was clear from his text that he had been here until early in the morning. He must have curled up on the sofa. Mycroft shakes his head slightly. _Why?_ The knowledge that Greg had made himself uncomfortable just to look after _him_ seems to inflate something suffocating inside his chest. He swallows hard, eyes closed against the driving spray of the shower.

_Greg..._ suddenly the hug of the day before, outlined in strange feverish technicolour, swims treacherously back to him. His senses tingle with the feeling of Greg in his arms, of the way his hair whispered coolly against Mycroft’s cheek. He almost, _almost_ manages to recapture the scent of _Greg,_ the mixed, spicy, shower-fresh odour of his skin that Mycroft had breathed in at the collar of his shirt.

His right hand closes around his already-hardening cock.

He can’t help it. He teases the underside of his rigid prick with his fingertips, up and down the length, lingering to press and caress his frenulum with the pad of his thumb. _Greg. The way he closed me in his arms without hesitation. With a sigh of relief, even._ He’s formed a loose ring with his fingers now, caressing the head of his cock, twisting his wrist to feel the beautiful sensation of teasing the hot, slick skin at the head. _The way he breathed me in. Did he? Did he do that too, or was I so intent on inhaling him myself that I imagined it?_ He’s too far gone, he needs the friction. He tightens his hand below the head of his aching cock and begins to stroke, down and then all the way up. He hears himself gasp, a bitten-off groan passing his lips. _He tipped his head on my shoulder, his lips so close to my neck._ He opens his eyes briefly, grabbing his bottle of conditioner and shaking out a generous amount into his palm. He sighs with relief as he takes his cock back in hand, left hand dipping down to rub his balls, pulling at them gently. _He undressed me. He undid the buttons of my shirt. I was so feverish I hardly noticed._ “Oh–oh f–” He’s jerking himself desperately now, the long fingers of his left hand pressing and rubbing at his perineum. His cock is slick with conditioner and precome, throbbing as he loosens his grip just a little, begins to tug faster and lighter as he nears orgasm. And then he’s groaning, legs shaking as he paints the marble wall of the shower with come, shuddering with aftershocks until at last all he can do is stroke and tug his balls gently.

Suddenly he realises how tired and weak he is, and has to fall forward onto his hands against the shower wall. He takes the showerhead and sluices down the wall, then washes himself carefully again from head to toe. His legs are shaking with the effort of staying upright, now, and when he steps from the shower he wraps himself in his towel and sits on the edge of the bath to do his teeth.

_He undressed me. He undid the buttons of my shirt. Which means he’s seen the way I look._ His mouth twists bitterly and he spits toothpaste into the sink viciously hard. Hot shame overwhelms him and he looks back at the shower wall. There’s no evidence left of what he’s just done. He rubs his face unnecessarily hard as he massages moisturiser into the painful skin around his nose.

He means only to curl up on his bed for a few minutes, just until the shaking in his legs subsides. Then he’ll do some work, catch up on emails. It’s not as though he’s feverish and incapable today. He sleeps.

*

He’s woken by his phone ringing harshly on the bedside table. Groggy, he picks up with his eyes half-closed. “Yes?”

“Mycroft – can you get them to let me in, please? You’re not answering the buzzer and they won’t even check with you if I’m allowed to come in and see you.” Greg sounds tired and harassed.

Mycroft stretches his eyes wide. His room is dim. It looks like streetlight coming through the curtains. Must be late.

“Yes. Pass the phone to Rogers please.” He tersely confirms that Lestrade is allowed in, and hangs up. He’s managed to pull on shirt, suit trousers and a waistcoat by the time the knock at the front door comes. He’s still buttoning the waistcoat as he opens it.

Greg steps inside, shoulders tense and a little hunched. He’s wearing his long black coat and a charcoal suit. He must have rushed home this morning before attending the murder scene. Another hot burst of shame fizzes in Mycroft’s belly as the sheer _normality_ of Greg’s presence sinks in. He’s not a fantasy. Just a good man trying to be kind. Mycroft stares at the floor, at Greg’s serviceable cracked black shoes and his own naked feet. _No time to put on socks._

“You look like you’re feeling a bit better?” asks Greg, and his voice is warm and kind, but the pressure of his day is still there, in the tight lines of his mouth and the harsh clip of his consonants.

Mycroft nods. He feels entirely unequal to this. He wants to take the burden of Greg’s day from him, lift it bodily from his shoulders and make things _better._ Nothing in his experience could have predicted this wish. Nothing has prepared him to meet it.

He glances at the clock on the wall. Nearly ten in the evening. He has slept for hours, half the day, and Greg probably had a few uncomfortable minutes here and there as he lay on Mycroft’s sofa last night. And then today, faced with – what? Horrors, by the look of his strained face and posture. He clears his throat, stretches out his hand. “Please allow me to take your coat.” Too formal, but he gently touches Greg’s sleeve, and perhaps it’s that which swings the balance. Greg’s shoulders slump a little more as he bundles the coat and jacket off, passes them to Mycroft. “Let me heat up some of the wonderful soup you made,” says Mycroft softly. It’s not a question, just a statement of intent, and he pads away to the kitchen.

He ladles out two portions into a saucepan, and sets it over the heat, then puts some crusty bread to warm in the oven. He reaches down a cut-glass whisky tumbler and steps back into the living room, where he finds Greg slumped on the sofa. He’s turned the television on, and is staring unseeingly at an advert for conservatories.

Mycroft takes out his best whisky, and pours two fingers into the tumbler. He passes it to Greg and sits down next to him on the sofa. He stays silent, trying not to take up too much space. Greg takes a swig, then does a double-take, looking down into the glass. He coughs a little. “Shit, Mycroft, you shouldn’t be wasting this stuff on me.” His brown eyes are wide and red-rimmed as he looks up into Mycroft’s face.

Mycroft can’t help a small smile. “You must need it. A long day after very little sleep, I suspect.”

Greg nods once, and takes another sip, lingering over the taste a little more this time. “You’re not wrong.”

Mycroft hears the soup beginning to simmer, and steps back into the kitchen, putting together a tray with two bowls of soup, a plate of crusty bread and a small dish of butter. He adds knives and soup spoons on the side and carries it back through to the living room. He puts it all on the coffee table and drops two cushions on the floor, before folding his long legs onto one cushion. “Are you happy to eat here?”

Greg’s already shoving himself off the sofa, slumping down onto the cushion at ninety degrees to Mycroft. “Thanks so much for this. Haven’t eaten all day – no time.”

“You did all the work of making the soup,” demurs Mycroft softly. There are a few minutes of silence, but though Greg is pushing his spoon around the soup-bowl, Mycroft realises he’s hardly eating. “Greg…” he says quietly. “Can I get you some more whisky?”

Greg sits back against the sofa with a tired sigh, closing his eyes for just a moment. “Nah. I mean…maybe not right now. After today…” he presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, but doesn’t take them out again as Mycroft had expected. “Today wasn’t. It wasn’t good,” he says, from behind his hands.

Mycroft sits silently for a moment, his stomach tight with the need to say something, to alleviate. _I can’t do this, I don’t know what to say._ “It was evident that things were not…” He abandons that, unsure which words could meet what he meant. “At lunchtime, though…your messages seemed…?”

“Yeah,” breathes Greg on a huge, sighing exhale. He screws the heels of his hands away from his eyes, grasping his fingers angrily together around his knees. His eyelashes are wet, though there don’t seem to be tears standing in his eyes. Mycroft’s hand twitches a little with the need to grasp his shoulder, or touch his knee. “We started off with one murder this morning, looked like a work thing – man bashed on the head in the car park of his office and stuffed in the boot, burned out at a scrapheap nearby. We narrowed it down to one guy pretty quickly – he’d been going off the rails, disciplinaries at work and so on. It was looking pretty cut and dried when you texted. I mean, we still needed to find him and everything, but… Just after that I got a call that the team dispatched to his house had found...something.”

Greg’s fingers are picking restlessly at the seams of his work trousers. He’d toed off his shoes at the door, and Mycroft can see the tension in the way his socked toes are curled. “I wasn’t even first on the scene,” he says bleakly, staring at the corner of the coffee table. “I already knew, they’d told me what–” he breaks off, breathes shakily for a few beats. “He’d done his family, too, then committed suicide. Oh, it was very _merciful,_ of course,” he spits, brown eyes narrowed, voice rising, “sleeping pills and pillows. Two little girls and their mum. And a fucking overdose for him, in the end.” His voice is shaking, contempt and revulsion twisting his features.

Mycroft just blinks at him, cold horror pooling at the bottom of his spine. He is opening his mouth to say something, anything, but then Greg unfolds himself, stands up. “Sorry, I think I’m going to be sick now,” he says, very calmly. And then he’s striding away to the main bathroom.

As he listens to the painful sounds of Greg retching, Mycroft goes through to his own bathroom, and collects up a new toothbrush in its packet, clean towels and a soft pair of pyjamas. He waits until Greg has stopped coughing, until he hears the loo flush and the tap start to run. Then he pushes the still half-open door a little wider, and mutely holds out the pile of items. It wipes the apology from Greg’s lips, and his brown eyes widen quizzically. “Stay here,” says Mycroft with a one-shouldered shrug. “There’s another bedroom. The sheets are clean.”

Greg simply nods, and takes the things, pushing the door closed. A moment later Mycroft hears the shower start to run, and Greg begin cleaning his teeth.

He pads into the spare bedroom, only really used on the extremely rare occasions that his parents come to stay. Everything is of course in order. He turns on the bedside lamps and places new towels for the morning on the armchair in the corner, before fetching a glass of water to place on the bedside table. He’s just folding up the extra bedspread when Greg appears tentatively in the doorway. The sight of him wearing Mycroft’s pyjamas makes his chest tight, breath catching a little. He looks fiercely down at his hands.

“I’m so sorry Mycroft,” sighs Greg at last, going to sit on the edge of the bed. “Ever since…earlier I knew things weren’t right but I had no idea – don’t normally react like that–”

“Greg, please,” says Mycroft gently. “An understandable reaction.”

Greg just sighs, moving to sit with his back against the headboard. “We’ve been told to go in a bit later tomorrow,” he says defeatedly.

Mycroft nods. “You will need to sleep. Can I get you anything? A book? A laptop – you could watch something–”

Tentatively, Greg looks up at him. “Could we – could we watch something? Anything? I can’t sleep yet.” He licks his lips and flicks his eyes up again. “I don’t want to be alone,” he mutters.

“Of course,” says Mycroft, with a terse nod. He goes back to the living room, collects up the remains of the dinner and puts it all away in the fridge, then takes a tablet back with him into the second bedroom. Greg’s curled down under the duvet, arms tucked round the pillow. Mycroft lies awkwardly on top of the duvet on the other side of the bed, holding himself rigidly far away as he props the tablet upright between them. He opens the ITV app and Lestrade chooses a _Lewis_ episode, with a wry smile at Mycroft’s sceptical expression.

“I know, I know. Not a problem though. It’s not real. Not the same.”

In the end, it doesn’t take long for Greg to fall asleep, long eyelashes fluttering closed and breathing lengthening. Mycroft waits a few extra minutes and starts to sit up, moving slowly.

“Please,” mutters Greg, and Mycroft freezes still, trying not to wake him, but Greg squints sleepily up, opening his eyes as little as possible. “Please don’t go. Don’t leave me alone,” he mumbles. Mycroft’s heart thumps an unruly rhythm as Greg blinks, vulnerable.

“I won’t,” says Mycroft reluctantly, at last. And Greg’s eyes swing shut as he breathes out a little _huff_ of relief, nuzzling closer to his pillow. Mycroft moves the tablet to his bedside table and lies stiffly on his back, listening to the dialogue and music of _Lewis_ until finally, his eyes close too.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has taken ages my dears. Insane time at work and a bit of a confidence crash...some more time for writing scheduled in this weekend. Love you guys <3

Mycroft’s phone alarm shrills at five-thirty the next morning. He silences it as quickly as possible, trying not to disturb Lestrade, but only truly comes back to consciousness as he squints at the clock next to the bed. This is when he realises that, despite the duvet cover still between them, Greg is curled comfortably around him, one warm, heavy arm draped over his hip and stomach. The other is pushed under Mycroft’s pillow.

The next discovery is that Mycroft is achingly hard in his trousers. He fell asleep in his clothes last night. His swollen cock is painfully obvious, distending the line of his slim-cut navy trousers. There’s no way to adjust himself without moving Lestrade’s arm and waking him.

Suddenly there’s a shuddering intake of breath behind him, and Lestrade starts to stretch. Mycroft has flipped over onto his stomach before Lestrade even gets his eyes open.

“W’time is it?” mumbles Greg. “Must be early?”

“Yes, I am sorry,” whispers Mycroft, fighting to keep his voice even. “You do not have to get up yet, I simply wanted to let you know that I will need to leave shortly. I did not want you to wake up alone, after – after yesterday.”

“Why’ve you got to go?” asks Greg. “You’re ill.” He’s still on his side, eyes open just a sliver now.

“Unfortunately I should have to be at death’s door to postpone _this_ meeting,” replies Mycroft grimly. Greg grumbles sleepily, then makes an effort to prop himself up on one hand. His hair is chaotic. His other hand is still lying between them, over the duvet. Nothing about his sleepy, rumpled, pillowcase-imprinted face is helping Mycroft with his imminent need to stand up. He ought to look away, but Greg is staring deliberately into his eyes.

“Thank you so much, Mycroft. For last night. Thank you, honestly.”

Mycroft shrugs a little, staring down at his pillow. “I – you looked after me,” he finally replies.

Neither of them says anything for a few moments, then Greg stretches slightly, and rolls over onto his back. “Think I’ll get up too,” he yawns. “Pop home then go in, get on with the paperwork.”

Mycroft’s speaking before he’s thought about it. “Perhaps a few more hours away from it all would be helpful.”

Greg makes a rueful face, and sighs. “Yeah, I know what you mean, I just – I just want it done. Sooner I get it off my desk the better.” He runs his fingers through his hair and Mycroft swallows, hard. “Anyway. Going to have another shower, if you don’t mind.” He sits up on the edge of the bed, then collects the towels from the armchair and pads off to the bathroom.

Mycroft makes good on his opportunity to slink into his own bedroom.

*

When Mycroft emerges, showered and fully dressed in a navy pinstripe three-piece suit, he sets a cafetière to percolate and gulps down a couple of ibuprofen with a full glass of water. He still doesn’t fancy food particularly, and thinks he’ll get something later, at the office. He needs to get going – the car will be downstairs in five minutes. There’s a knock at the door and when Mycroft opens it Danes, one of the two on-duty Security staff, hands him a suit cover with dry-cleaning label still attached. “Sir,” he says, and Mycroft gives him a quick nod and smile before closing the door again.

“Mycroft?” shouts Greg from his bedroom. “Do you know where my–”

He gets no further because Mycroft appears in the door of his room, holding out the suit cover. Mycroft tries desperately not to notice that Greg has nothing but a large bath towel slung low on his hips, that there are a few drops of water still glistening on his neck and in the sparse dark hairs on his chest, that the line of hair dips lower, a thin dark trail leading downwards until it disappears beneath the rolled edge of the soft white towelling. Mycroft’s face is instantly hot, cheeks undoubtedly flushing a painful red. His mouth is suddenly desert-dry, and he isn’t sure how to tell whether his lips are hanging open. He presses them together very hard to make sure they aren’t, and stares at the curtain rail. He drops the suit cover onto the bed as if it’s burned him.

He’s already spinning on his heel to leave when Greg asks, “is that mine?”

Mycroft stops in his tracks, but doesn’t turn around fully, studying the bedside lamp with close attention. He tries to clear his aching throat as quietly as possible. “Yes. I thought – I thought perhaps you would prefer it to be cleaned before you wore it next. It has been dry-cleaned overnight.”

Behind him, he can hear Greg pull the suit cover towards him over the duvet and start to unzip it. “Thank you so much, Mycroft,” he says softly. “That’s really thoughtful. I didn’t really want to put it on after yesterday. After – being there.” He sighs. “I know it’s stupid. Borderline superstitious.”

“No. I...I understand,” says Mycroft in return, bestowing his attention on the doorknob now. He can feel Greg’s eyes on his back, and part of him so badly wants to see the expression in his soft, dark eyes. He doesn’t turn round.

“Are you OK?” asks Greg, tentatively, and Mycroft hears a whisper of fabric on fabric that might be Greg stepping closer.

Mycroft feels a rush of need to be _away_ rising up from his chest, and takes a hurried step towards the doorway. “Perfectly well, thank you Greg.” His voice sounds unnatural, strained. “My driver is here and I must go, but I have left coffee in the kitchen. Please do help yourself to breakfast before you leave.”

“Mycroft –” Greg sounds confused and worried, but Mycroft is striding out of the flat, snatching up his umbrella and briefcase from beside the door as he flees.

*

**[07:58]** **_You OK Mycroft? You rushed off earlier. Thanks so much for getting my suit sorted, for everything really. At my desk and making a start on clearing up yesterday’s mess. Hope your meeting goes well. G_ **

**[14:16]** **_Haven’t heard from you, are you alright? Not still in the same meeting? You must be feeling pretty rough by now, early start and you still have flu. G_ **

**[17:09]** **_Hope you are OK. Text me back, I’m worrying about you. Going down the pub for a bit with a couple of the others when we’re done. Can I come over afterwards? I could bring dinner. Or make us something. G_ **

**[21:51]** **_Mycroft please I’m drunk  want to see you . They were jsut kid s_ **

[22:01] _Where are you? MH_

**[22:07]** **_Marquis_ **

*

Greg is strangely quiet and pliant as Mycroft’s security man manhandles him into the back seat of the long black sedan. His head falls back against the headrest and he stares straight forward through hooded eyes as the burly man straps him safely in, before returning to the front seat next to the driver.

Mycroft stirs a little in the other corner of the back seat, clearing his weary, aching throat. “Greg?” he says tentatively.

Immediately Greg rolls his head to the side, and a beaming smile appears on his face. “My–” he very deliberately licks his lips, seeming to contemplate the whole word. “My,” he says again, and stops. He grins, winningly. “You’re here.”

“It is my car,” says Mycroft, acerbically.

Greg frowns gently. “Are you cross with me?” he slurs, trying to focus his eyes more carefully on Mycroft’s face. “Shorry,” he says, mournfully. “I’m drunk.”

“I know,” sighs Mycroft, not unkindly. Greg’s holding out his hand, now, motioning Mycroft closer.

“C’mere, c’mere,” he hisses in a loud stage-whisper.

Mycroft knots his fingers together. “We’ll take you home,” he replies, nodding to the driver in the rearview mirror. The car pulls smoothly away.

“Mycroft,” moans Greg, still holding out his hand, his strong fingers flexing in the space between them. “Please c’mere. I can’t see you properly.”

Mycroft hesitates, unsure of what to do in this situation, and Greg lets out a small despairing whine. The sound is so piteous that Mycroft can’t help stretching out his own hand to take Greg’s. It’s only as their fingers touch that Mycroft realises he reflexively removed his leather glove before giving his hand to the other man.

Greg tries to tug Mycroft closer, but is too drunk to succeed and gives up easily. Instead he winds their fingers together and drops their joined hands to the seat between them. It’s a startling intimacy and one that Mycroft has not experienced in many years. His heart is thumping, breath catching short.

“Thank you,” mutters Greg. There’s a beat, and then an abrupt change of tone. “Can we get a curry? I know a good takeaway place.”

“It would perhaps be best if you go to bed and sleep it off,” says Mycroft drily. “We will be at your flat in around fifteen minutes.”

He gasps as Greg’s fingers tighten uncomfortably hard on his own. “No– oh, no–” Greg says loudly, head whipping round. “Please, Mycroft – can I come to yours?”

Mycroft is unable to look away from Greg’s face, noticing the paling of the lips, the widening of the eyes, the way his nostrils flare just a little. He can recognise real fear when he sees it, even if Greg’s drunken, slurring voice is having a hard time conveying it. “I–” he flounders, unsure what to say. “Why don’t you want to go home?” he asks quietly, trying to gently ease the vice-like grip of Greg’s fingers on his own. Greg just clings harder.

“I just – I just don’t want to be on my own,” he mumbles. His eyes, wide and brown and trusting and _desperate,_ fix themselves on Mycroft’s.

Mycroft stares at him helplessly, then leans forward and presses the button to speak to the driver. “Turn around, Hall,” he says tersely. “My flat.”

*

Dornan delivers Greg safely to the kitchen of Mycroft’s flat, and takes his leave. Mycroft presses a pint glass of water into the detective's hand and continues making a very strong pot of coffee. “Drink it all,” he says, fixing Greg with a stern gaze.

Greg obediently starts to gulp the water down, leaning indolently against the kitchen counter. His eyelids are drooping with tiredness, but he eventually manages to polish off the water. Mycroft refills it and passes it back to him. Greg sighs and pushes out his bottom lip, and Mycroft can’t help a small huff of amusement. Already Greg seems to be finding it a little easier to focus his eyes, and the water will certainly help his hangover in the morning.

Mycroft places a steaming-hot mug of black coffee in front of Greg. “Milk? Sugar?” he asks. People’s tastes change when they’re drunk.

“Jesus Mycroft, I’ll be pissing all night,” says Greg exasperatedly, then gives a little snort of laughter. “Sorry,” he adds. He already sounds more like himself.

“You’ll thank me in the morning,” says Mycroft wryly.

“I know,” sighs Greg, finishing the second pint and setting the glass down with a flourish. “Thank god it’s not actually that late. What a fucking lightweight.”

“Drink your coffee,” says Mycroft mock-sternly. “I’ll get your room ready.” He pads into the second bedroom. The flat has been cleaned today and everything has been taken away to be laundered. He collects up new pyjamas and towels for Greg. His toothbrush is still in the main bathroom.

Returning to the kitchen, he pours out another glass of water, and Greg follows him as they walk back to the bedroom. Mycroft puts the glass down on the bedside table, then returns to the doorway a little awkwardly. “Well – I’ll…” he gestures across the hall to the door of his own room.

Greg buries his face in his hands, scrubs them up and through his hair. He exhales deeply and fixes pleading eyes on Mycroft. “I’m so sorry,” he mumbles. “Could you – could we...watch something again?”

Mycroft’s eyes flick to the tablet, still sitting on the bedside table furthest from the door. He nods, cautiously, not taking his eyes from it. “I will get ready for bed, so that I can move to my own room once you’re asleep,” he says quietly, and turns away.

When he returns, washed, teeth clean and wearing brushed-cotton pyjama bottoms with a soft jersey t-shirt, Greg has curled down under the duvet. The tablet is already propped up in the middle of the bed, the episode just beginning. Mycroft lies down on top of the duvet, trying not to stare too hard at Greg’s soft, open, tired face.

They lie in silence for a few moments, then Greg sighs. “I’m so sorry Mycroft,” he whispers. “I know this isn’t exactly ideal, especially when you’re not well. You’re not getting enough sleep, and it isn’t fair of me to–”

Mycroft shakes his head against the pillow. “It’s alright, Greg,” he says, flatly.

“It’s just,” Greg rolls onto his back and presses the fingers of one hand over his eyes. “I keep seeing them. All day. Their faces.” He takes a slow, deep breath, then rolls back onto his side. His eyes are fixed desperately on Mycroft’s.

Mycroft is not sure what to say. He has seen a lot of things in his time. But what can ever be done about it? “Is there a counsellor available?” he asks.

“Yeah, and she’s decent. I’m signed up to see her next week,” sighs Greg.

Mycroft nods, the soft cotton of the pillowcase rubbing against his cheek. “Then you just have to endure, for now,” he says quietly, with a bittersweet twist to his lips. “It’s all you can do.”

Greg’s eyes are large and dark. “Thank you,” he says. “I couldn’t bear one more person today saying ‘oh but you did everything you could’.”

Mycroft stays silent. He can see the words fighting their way out of Greg. “We _didn’t_ do everything we could,” explodes Greg, quiet fury trembling in his voice. “If I’d cottoned that it wasn’t just some work thing–” his lips work uselessly, and there are tears now, on his eyelashes. “You would've seen it, Sherlock would've seen it. We went back to the office for _lunch,_ _”_ he spits, contemptuously. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“They died only just after you got the call about the original murder,” says Mycroft firmly. He doesn’t add any other commentary.

“Yeah,” says Greg angrily. It’s a repudiation, a noise of pure fury at himself. They fall silent. Mycroft watches Greg blink the tears out of his eyes. They pool on the side of his nose, run down into the soft cotton pillowcase. “Kids, Mycroft,” he whispers. _“His kids._ Jesus Christ, his wife. They built that family together, she carried those babies in her body and he just–” Greg gestures helplessly with one hand, fingers splaying on the duvet between them.

Mycroft nods. He doesn’t have any words for this situation. He reaches out and tentatively touches Greg’s hand. Greg winds their fingers together again, a grateful sigh escaping him. Mycroft turns off his bedroom lamp and they watch the episode in the dark. Eventually sleep comes to them both.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter terrifies me...like perhaps my heart will explode. I hope you like it <3

03:50 am. Mycroft awakes suddenly in the darkness, eyes wide and unable to understand why he can hear breathing. It’s only when he registers fingers tangled with his own that he remembers  _ Greg, it’s Greg,  _ and his heartbeat begins to return to normal.

He unplugs his phone from its charger and opens the app for his building’s gym. Unsurprisingly, the first booked session is at 6am, so he has plenty of time. He books out the two hours from four to six and gently untangles his fingers from Greg’s. The other man’s breathing changes, stirring a little, but Mycroft strokes his fingers until he settles again. He doesn’t want to leave him alone, really, but Mycroft won’t sleep again tonight, and he needs to run, to think.

*

Slogging up the demanding hill that his treadmill has arranged for him in mile five, Mycroft draws in gasping breaths and wipes his forehead with his towel. His chest feels tight and full, his legs heavy. A few nights away from running have left him unprepared for this. Inwardly he berates himself for allowing himself to get out of condition.

But Greg...Mycroft purses his lips and pushes for another burst of speed to crest the top of the hill. He gasps in a huge celebratory pull of air as he reaches the top and the machine levels out then starts to descend.

Greg. So vulnerable, so scared in the car last night. Afraid to go home to – to his own flat. Why? Mycroft tries to breathe in through his nose, out through his mouth as he pounds onwards, attempting to level his breathing. He can’t deny that he himself has been unwilling to go home sometimes, after a difficult day at work. It can be...hard to contemplate being alone after a day of life-changing decisions.  _ Life-taking  _ decisions. Taking, making, breaking lives. Just because it happens every day doesn’t make it any easier.  _ Hypocrite,  _ says the small self-censoring voice inside his head.  _ You love your job, you love those decisions. You love the power they give you. _ He pushes harder, legs like lead.

Nevertheless...the nights where Mycroft comes home late and cannot contemplate bed, works and works until dawn, one small glass of whisky his only concession to some form of private life – they are frequent. They betray the impossibility of quieting his brain. Sherlock cannot do it effectively, has never been able to, and Mycroft’s shameful secret is that his own professed mastery over his thoughts is much more partial than anyone imagines.

Their family deserves one son who does not succumb to the misery of his own remorseless brain.

He passes the nine-mile mark and sips from his water bottle, wipes the stinging sweat from his eyes. He’s reached the point now where he feels he could keep running forever. He senses the tightness of his stomach muscles, the strain in his arms and shoulders, the bursting pressure in his lungs, the aching pain in his left leg – but everything seems to float  _ through _ his body, rather than incapacitating it.

The palms of his hands are hot, coated with sweat. He wipes them on his towel and swipes it across his face again as he begins another ascent.

Faintly, he can still feel the press of Greg’s fingers – first tight and panicked in the back of the car, and then tangling with his own as they slipped into sleep.

He thinks perhaps he’ll never forget the way Greg’s hand felt in his own.

There’s no point lying to himself any longer about the attraction he feels to Greg. He may not approve of  _ sentiment  _ but neither does he advocate self-delusion. The only question is now how to deal with the situation.

His thoughts drift as he toils up the most trying slope yet. He blames Sherlock, with his painful love for the little army doctor. He has betrayed their almost –  _ sacred _ pact against sentiment. Against the nonsensical, unbearable need to hand everything that matters about oneself to someone else, to say  _ take it, take me, I’m yours to break and maim as you will.  _ Mycroft crests the hill, and now he can feel it, the shooting pain in his left leg, more clearly. His chest feels as though an iron band is being slowly tightened around it. And yet it’s somehow easier to breathe, gasping on this treadmill, than it has been for a week. His mind feels free.

What is it, this need to press one’s body against another person and ask for destruction?

_ Cease these generalities, Mycroft,  _ whispers his inner censor sternly.  _ What are you going to do?  _

Put an end to these strange intimacies of shared space, shared meals, shared beds, entwined fingers. It’s the only way, he knows.

And yet…

_ Coward. _

His treacherous brain rebels. Is it cowardice? It is unforgivably stupid, certainly, to fall hopelessly  _ (pathetic cliché, listen to yourself) _ for someone so unattainable. But cowardly? He would have thought so, once. Part of him still thinks so, still feels nothing but contempt. But Sherlock and John...there is a cold, sinking stone in Mycroft’s stomach which says,  _ Sherlock has gone forward, somewhere I can’t follow, somewhere I can’t understand. And now I truly am alone. _

He swallows against the lump in his throat and takes in huge lungfuls of air as the machine beeps to show he’s hit the half-marathon and slows dramatically into the cool-down cycle. Mycroft feels as though he’s floating, gliding out of control, too fast for the machine to keep up.

*

By the time he makes it back through the door of his flat, he can feel every muscle in his body aching. The pain in his left leg is becoming distracting. It takes a huge effort of will not to limp. Not far to the shower now.

It’s still only 6am. Mycroft sets the kettle going and walks slowly, stiffly into his own room. He can’t help it – just a few moments to sit on the edge of the bed. He subsides onto the mattress in a graceless slump and gasps quietly. He bends down to undo the laces of his trainers and pushes them off. It’s suddenly unbearable having his sweaty socks on his feet any longer and he has to bend further to peel those off too. His stomach muscles are tight and aching. He sighs, taking deep breaths. His body never will obey him, in anything. It has always been a disappointment.

“Good run?” Greg is smiling sleepily at him from the doorway, his eyes still a little screwed up against the daylight streaming through Mycroft’s bedroom windows.

Mycroft glances up, but he hasn’t managed to rearrange his expression in time. Too late, he can feel it: there’s still a wince of pain in the pinched tightness around his eyes, the way he’s biting his bottom lip. Greg’s face changes. “Have you hurt yourself?” he asks, voice deep and concerned.

“I–” Mycroft curses himself internally. The truth is the only answer that presents itself to his brain, ten steps behind, distracted –  _ messy silver hair, dark brown eyes, soft grey t-shirt, the way the fabric stretches over his biceps  _ – “an old leg wound,” he says, voice calmer than he had imagined possible. “Exacerbated by running. Not a cause for concern.”

But Greg’s already kneeling in front of him, the soft brushed cotton of the pyjama bottoms whispering against the carpet. “Of course I’m concerned,” he says, voice a little rough. His eyes are wide and earnest, looking up deeply into Mycroft’s.

Mycroft’s limbs feel like lead. He can’t move an inch. His hands are flat against the tops of his thighs. He thinks madly that his hands look far too relaxed for this situation. Calm hands.

“It’s you,” murmurs Greg. “Of course I worry.” And there’s another rasp of carpet as he shifts forward just a little. Mycroft’s heart might beat out of his chest, might choke him, and every inch of his skin thrills as Greg’s palms come to rest softly around his elbows.

He has to move. He has to get away, but not a single cell in his entire body will cooperate to let him stand up.  _ What do I look like? Sweaty, red, startled, unshaven – staring stupidly – is my mouth open? Oh God –  _ and Greg’s fingers are gently skimming down the underside of Mycroft’s arms until they come to rest on the bed, bracketing his hips. Just a quarter of an inch, and his thumbs would be stroking the fabric.

The air between Greg’s thumbs and Mycroft’s hips is warm with possibility. Greg’s eyes are staring directly into Mycroft’s, soft with mute appeal, with a request that he might be able to read if only he could get his  _ breath – _

And then Greg’s hands move inwards just that fraction of an inch, a ghost of a touch around Mycroft’s hips on the bed.

Time slows to nothing as Greg smiles with his eyes and presses upwards, just a little, to kiss the corner of Mycroft’s mouth.

He pulls back, gaze flickering between Mycroft’s eyes and lips. Mycroft feels himself gasp airlessly, a silent parting of his lips.

Greg pushes forward again, their lips slide together softly and Mycroft can’t stop himself from closing his eyes at the gentle needy press. The silence in the room seems somehow deafening, only it’s not silent at all, Mycroft can hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears, can hear the slip of fabric as Greg’s thumbs smooth tiny circles on his hips, and a hitch in Greg’s breath that seems to mark a change in their kiss –

Greg catches his breath and there’s a tiny moan in the back of his throat that travels straight to Mycroft’s heart and brain and groin, and he’s half-hard and his heart feels both bloodless and overfull at the same time. Greg licks a purposeful, deliberate line across his upper lip and the shock of sensation seems to squeeze directly at the centre of his chest. His lips open and now the kiss has changed entirely. Mycroft takes Greg’s bottom lip delicately between his front teeth and tugs, and Greg gasps and presses forward anew, his tongue invading and licking inside –

And now Mycroft feels Greg’s right hand leave his hip, travel up his arm, and it’s cupping the back of his neck, caressing his cheek.

Greg takes a deep breath through his nose, places a few more delicate chaste kisses against Mycroft’s lips and then draws gently back, stroking his cheek with his thumb. “Mycroft,” he sighs, and his eyes are wide and full of – the only word that springs to Mycroft’s mind is  _ joy  _ – and his lips are red and thoroughly kissed –

He is beautiful. Mycroft’s stomach drops like a stone. He is a rabbit in the glare of Greg’s gaze.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps out.

“What?” Greg’s voice is husky, breathless. “Sorry? Mycroft – that was–”

“I can’t – I – I have to go to work,” says Mycroft, and he can hear his own voice, weak and ineffectual. Surely Greg can hear his weakness, his pathetic temptation. His whole body feels heavy as he breaks out of Greg’s grasp and stands, steps shakily towards the bathroom. “Go please,” he says, and this time his voice is colder, more under control. He can’t look at Greg.

“Please, Mycroft,” Greg sounds disbelieving. “Not after that – I’m not asking for anything from you – not anything  _ more  _ – you know – but you are–” he draws a shuddering breath in. “I can’t stop thinking about you. Please. Let’s talk. Something.”

“I  _ cannot,”  _ says Mycroft, and perhaps Greg hears the cold misery behind the steely tone, because he doesn’t insist.

“I’ll go,” he says, defeatedly. “But please – call me.  _ Please.” _ He waits a full minute, but Mycroft can’t respond. He doesn’t know what to say.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise they are finding a way <3

**From:** Lestrade, Greg

**To:** Holmes, Mycroft

**Date:** Weds, Apr 29, 2015 at 14:53 PM

**Subject:** This morning

Hi Mycroft,

I’m sorry – I’m really sorry if what I did this morning wasn’t okay. Part of me wishes I could just let it go, back off and give you some time to think. But I’m worried that if I do that you’ll just stay away – you’ve done it before – and I’ll never get another chance to be close to you.

I don’t know if you’ll read this, or maybe just delete it. I’m going to put it all down here, just in case you give it a chance.

I felt you kiss me back this morning, but I know that doesn’t mean anything. I’ve thought a few times that maybe there’s hope of something more between us – that you might be interested in more than just friendship. And when you didn’t back away this morning I misread the signals and thought – anyway, I’m trying to apologise. Clearly it was inappropriate, or too much, and I’m sorry.

Sherlock says you don’t ‘do’ friendships. You told me that you don’t have romantic relationships. I should have listened better. But I have to say honestly, you are already my friend. Unless you decide it’s impossible after this email/this morning, you are already a damn good friend. You have looked after me every time I’ve needed it. You’re funny, and terrifyingly clever, and yet somehow you give enough of a damn about what I have to say to listen – _really_ listen – when I talk. I don’t think you know how rare that is.

You’re  _ kind,  _ Mycroft. I know you don’t believe it – and maybe not many people in Westminster (or Baker Street) believe it either – but deep down you’re one of the kindest and most caring people I’ve ever met. You take your work seriously but I’ve never seen anyone work as hard as you do at keeping your brother safe and, to be blunt, alive. I’ve witnessed it over years now. All you get for it is abuse, but I’ve seen how much you care for him.

I know I’m on thin ice now about whether we can still be friends, but more than anything I do want to be your friend. I think we understand each other – what makes us tick. I feel comfortable with you.

Given this morning, it would be inappropriate to say half the things I want to. Can I just say though, there is so much more to the way I feel about you. I hope one day I could tell you that stuff, without it being unwanted. The worst of it is that I know you think badly about yourself – as a person, but about the way you look too. I don’t know if the way you see yourself will stop you understanding or believing how I feel. Let me just say, I can’t stop thinking about you, about being close to you, in whatever form that takes – even as friends.

Jesus, I’ve never cringed as much writing anything as I have this email, and I used to write poetry and lyrics...but I was eighteen then. I just reread this email and I want to delete the whole thing but I’m just going to press send. I’m sorry it’s not as coherent as it should be. If I go back now I’ll lose my courage and it’ll never get sent.

Please, please don’t leave me alone with this. Even if all you say is ‘piss off, we can’t be friends’, please just let me know. Even if it’s through Anthea. Just let me know, Mycroft.

Love,

Greg

 

**From:** Holmes, Mycroft

**To:** Lestrade, Greg

**Date:** Weds, Apr 29, 2015 at 23:53 PM

**Subject:** Re: This morning

Dear Greg,

I apologise for my slowness in answering. In truth, I have started several emails and discarded them all. Please allow me to say how much I appreciate your message. I wish that my response could be better composed.

I cannot agree that I am kind. Perhaps friendships of all kinds are based on delusions, but that is truly a strange one to hold about me. It is obvious from my actions over decades that it is not so. However, you are worth looking after. You are invaluable to Sherlock, but I would be lying if I pretended that you have not become equally as essential to me. To return your compliment: I am comfortable with you too, which makes you part of a group of perhaps four people in the world.

I wish to dispel your guilt about this morning. You did not misread anything. My own actions have been annoyingly, uncontrollably transparent. I am attracted to you. This is not to say that  _ any  _ form of relationship between us would be in any sense appropriate. There are many reasons, both personal and professional, why it would not.

I have finished my glass of whisky and am going to press send, without rereading.

Best,

Mycroft

 

**[00:01]** **_Thank you for your email – didn’t know if you’d reply or not. So at the risk of sounding thick, what does that mean for us? G_ **

[00:09]  _ I am hardly experienced in this situation. Is friendship still an option? MH _

**[00:12]** **_Yes. Please. But can we talk about it all, in person? G_ **

[00:14]  _ What purpose would that serve? MH _

**[00:15]** **_Make me feel better! G_ **

[00:16]  _ Then yes. MH _

**[00:18]** **_Thank you. When can we meet? Are you getting ready for a run? G_ **

[00:21]  _ Yes. I have a dinner meeting at my club on Friday evening. Perhaps we could meet there afterwards? MH _

**[00:23]** **_You really need to see a doctor about how little sleep you get. Bet you’re up early tomorrow again as well. Friday sounds good. What time? G_ **

[00:25]  _ Around 9pm would be suitable. MH _

**[00:26]** **_Looking forward to seeing you. G_ **

*

**[08:52]** **_Did you sleep eventually? How was your run? G_ **

[10:19]  _ The run was acceptable. I reached 14 miles but I have been aiming for 15 and hitting a wall before I get there. MH _

**[10:40]** **_Annoying. Have you been eating and drinking enough before you run? Might just be because you’re tired after a long day at work. You should come and run in the park with me instead! And don’t think I don’t notice you avoiding my question about whether you slept. Boring paperwork day for me. You? G_ **

[10:57]  _ Just going into another meeting. A full evening of socialising for work. Cocktail party. I don’t drink cocktails. MH _

**[10:58]** **_Not even the whisky ones? G_ **

[10:59]  _ Not even those. MH _

**[21:18]** **_Just home and cooking dinner at last. Robbery case we thought we were done with reared its ugly head again late in the afternoon. Hope you’re enjoying the party! G_ **

[21:54]  _ Just another hour and a half until I can leave. MH _

**[21:55]** **_Do you really hate it that much? G_ **

[21:59]  _ Enforced socialising is strategic but unpleasant. MH _

**[22:00]** **_Wish I could be there (if it would help) G_ **

[22:01]  _ I am certain it would. Anthea is here to stop me escaping. I have to leave the bathroom and return to the fray now. MH _

**[22:03]** **_Brilliant but scary woman! I’ve had dinner so going to have an early night. It’ll be Friday when I wake up :) Look forward to seeing you tomorrow. G_ **

[00:21]  _ I too. MH _

*

**[06:05]** **_Thank you for your message last night – Happy Friday! G_ **

[06:07]  _ Perhaps you will be pleased to learn that I went straight to sleep when I returned last night. MH _

**[06:08]** **_Ooh Mycroft, a full – what – five hours’ sleep! What a treat! G_ **

[06:10]  _ Both sarcasm and facetiousness are beneath you, Inspector. MH _

**[06:11]** **_Detective Inspector, thank you very much. What do I need to wear to this bloody silent posh club of yours later, Mycroft? Goodness knows I probably couldn’t make a worse impression on them than I did last time. G_ **

[06:13]  _ Whichever suit you are wearing to work today will be perfectly adequate. MH _

**[06:15]** **_Perfectly adequate. You really know how to flatter a bloke, Mycroft. G_ **

[06:20]  _ I am sure your sartorial efforts will be quite suitable, Greg. MH _

**[06:21]** **_Charmer. Right, I’m dragging myself out of bed. G_ **

[06:23]  _ I am walking to the office along the river. You will need an umbrella. MH _

**[06:24]** **_Knew I should have kept yours. G_ **

[06:25]  _ Surely you own an umbrella of your own. MH _

**[06:27]** **_Nope. Half the arms on my latest one broke last week and haven’t had time to replace it. G_ **

[06:28]  _ Good grief. You may have my third-best umbrella to keep. MH _

**[06:29]** **_You remind me of Shakespeare leaving his wife his second-best bed. G_ **

[06:31]  _ a spinning world / of forests, castles, torchlight, clifftops, seas. MH _

**[06:32]** **_Didn’t think CAD would be your style. It’s a simple poem. G_ **

[06:33]  _ Sometimes simplicity is admirable. MH _

**[06:34]** **_Even if not in suits or umbrellas... G_ **

[06:35]  _ No. I am at work and about to join a call. Until tonight. MH _

**[06:37]** **_See you later! G_ **


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK...this chapter is *ridiculously* long and extremely full of talking. I was going to split it into two and then I couldn't find a good way to do that so I just thought...fuck it, whatever, so here you go and I hope you don't mind.
> 
> Sorry about the updates coming thick and fast at the moment...writing is my refuge this week and it is making things better. Thank you for all of you being you and being lovely <3

Mycroft is on the phone with Anthea discussing follow-up points from his dinner meeting when Greg is ushered to his door, a few minutes early. The club steward knocks tentatively, and Mycroft barks a “yes?” as his eyes flick to the clock on the wall. Perhaps not? But then the DI steps inside, nodding and smiling at the steward as he closes the door smoothly behind him.

“What about the negotiations in China at the start of July, sir?” asks Anthea, and this is a point he must complete his thought process around now. He gives Greg a tight smile, motions vaguely towards the drinks tray and large, comfortable leather sofa and turns away to consult his notes from the meeting.

“Well,” he says, studying his shorthand for what the business leader had put forward. “Obviously there has to be a reason why the foreign secretary cannot attend. It would be disastrous. We need some actual British business representatives – Everson, Miller, perhaps? – and the under-secretary will be quite capable of directing the discussion in the necessary way.”

“Will you attend, sir? The Prime Minister did mention that there would be a number of tasks in the region which could use your...personal attention, if a trip were on the cards.”

“I know. Only if it cannot be avoided.”

“Very well sir. Enjoy your evening,” says Anthea, with toneless politeness.

“Thank you. To you too.” Mycroft hangs up and drops his phone onto the desk. He takes a deep breath and turns to face Greg. “My apologies for that. There were a few urgent points.” Greg has taken off his dark grey suit jacket and curled himself into the corner of the large comfortable sofa, facing towards the centre of it, towards Mycroft. He’s poured them each two fingers of whisky in the cut-glass tumblers, and a large glass of water each too. He gives Mycroft a grin, but Mycroft can tell he’s nervous. His arms are wrapped around himself, just a little defensively.

“I understand,” says Greg. “Long day myself. Made us a drink.” His eyes are large and soft as he asks, “Come and sit with me?”

Mycroft hesitates for a moment behind the safety of his desk, but then he slips off his jacket and hangs it over the back of his chair. He steps over to the large sofa and takes the opposite corner, facing towards Greg. Greg shifts around and throws him a sheepish look. “Can I take my shoes off?” he asks.

Mycroft can’t help a small smile at that. He gestures to the sofa. “Of course.”

Greg toes off his shoes and tucks his socked feet up onto the sofa. He’s facing Mycroft directly now, and Mycroft can feel the full weight of his gaze. “Helps me think,” says Greg, and there’s a smile behind his voice.

“Whisky and water?” asks Mycroft, looking fixedly at the table.

“I want to talk,” says Greg, quietly but insistently. “I don’t want to just...get drunk and avoid everything. And I’ve only had a sandwich for dinner, so it won’t take much,” he adds laughingly. “Suppose I shouldn’t complain. Managed to have an actual cooked dinner  _ at home _ last night, can’t expect too much from each week.” He grins at Mycroft, eyes sparkling.

Mycroft turns to the side-table and passes Greg a menu. “We can order anything you want. The food is of course excellent.”

Greg looks at the menu, nonplussed. “Oh. Are you sure? You’ve already eaten.”

“Indeed, but a sandwich is certainly not enough to sustain you until tomorrow.”

“There aren’t even any prices.”

“I pay monthly rent to the club. All sustenance is included.”

“Bloody hell, Mycroft. Steak and chips, please.”

Mycroft picks up the direct line to the porter and orders the meal. “It should be around twenty minutes,” he says quietly.

“Right,” says Greg, and Mycroft can hear the determination in his voice. He shoots Greg a rather nervous look through his eyelashes. “I’m sorry,” adds Greg in response to it. “I just –” he gestures ineloquently with one hand. “Please.”

Mycroft nods. “Yes. Where do you want to – to start?”

Greg bites his lip. “I just – I want to apologise again,” he says in a rush. “I’m sorry for – the other morning. What I did.”

Already Mycroft can feel his cheeks starting to heat. His hands are a little shaky, and he knots his fingers together in his lap. “Thank you,” he says, cautiously.

“I – I want to try and be honest, Mycroft,” says Greg, a worried frown furrowing his brow. His socked toes are digging hard into the soft aged leather of the sofa. “There’s a lot of me that –” he takes a deep breath. “That doesn’t regret it either.” He winces as he makes eye contact. “Because it’s what I’ve wanted for...for quite a long time, actually.” His voice is painfully diffident as he finishes his sentence. He takes another breath, and steels himself to look back at Mycroft.

Mycroft is already leaning forward to pick up his whisky tumbler; the cold clear ridges of the cut glass feel startlingly  _ real _ in his palm. The burn as his first sip goes down is a tangible thing to hang onto. “I didn’t realise,” says Mycroft, very quietly. “I am sorry.” He doesn’t know what else he can say.

There’s a silence, and Greg picks up his own whisky, takes a sip. “I – I don’t want to sound like some pathetic petulant twat who can’t take no for an answer,” he says, with a twist of dry laughter around his eyes. “It’s just that – we know we’re attracted to each other. And we know we work well together – support each other, I mean. For years, with Sherlock, and the past week –” his voice tails off. “I don’t think I’m explaining very well. But we said in our emails, we feel comfortable together. And that doesn’t come around so often, not for me anyway. Not for you either, from what you said. So why – why just let it go by?”

Mycroft’s voice is low as he says, “I don’t need to explain my decisions, Lestrade.”

Greg’s dark eyes are anguished as he stares at Mycroft. He bites his lip. “I know you don’t have to. I know you don’t owe me an explanation. It’s just – we said we’d at least try to be friends –” he sighs and rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I wish I could explain properly. It would mean so much if I could just understand.”

Mycroft stares helplessly at Greg. He looks so small and unhappy. The urge to put his hand on his arm or shoulder as some form of comfort is growing unbearable. He grips his whisky glass harder. “As I said in my email, there are multiple reasons, both personal and professional.”

“Fire away.” Greg’s eyes are dark and challenging.

“Firstly, of course, as always: Sherlock. He would not accept any such...arrangement between us. It would be impossible to hide from him and would most likely lead to him ceasing to work with you. As you know, this would again open him to the dangers we have repeatedly had to deal with on his behalf.”

“Oh I’m sure he’d throw a strop, but he’d get over it.”

“I am hardly so confident on the matter.”

“Alright. Eventually,” Greg grins at Mycroft. “And he’s got John now. John would never let him get back into all that stuff. He’s got an independent business now, anyway. It’s not like he really needs me.”

“All the same. You are one of the three people he counts as a friend in this world, and were I to – to take that away –” Mycroft gives a half-shake of his head and takes another sip of whisky. He can feel it starting to burn low in his stomach.

Greg sighs. It’s not angry, but Mycroft can hear his frustration and disappointment. “Explain to me. Explain to me about – why you and Sherlock are like this. This thing you have going on between you.”

Mycroft just looks at Greg for a moment, at his kind, tired eyes and the way he’s worrying at his bottom lip. He has a startling sense memory of Greg’s lips soft against his own, and feels his cheeks heat still further. “I am not sure if I will be able to explain everything fully,” he says, cautiously.

Greg nods understandingly through a sip of whisky. “I get it. There’s always stuff with families that it’s impossible to understand unless you’re part of it. But.” He stops speaking and looks at Mycroft.

Mycroft sighs and closes his eyes, trying to marshal his thoughts. After a moment, he takes a deep breath. “There are some parts of it,” he says, looking directly into Greg’s eyes, “that are still not to be spoken about outside secure locations.” Greg nods, eyes wide. Mycroft tightens his lips into a line and starts again. “My mother finished her PhD in Mathematics at Cambridge, and immediately began the work of turning her research into a book. She and my father had already been married for two years, and decided to have their first child while she was writing. My father was already working in the city so was able to support them fairly comfortably. Unknown to my father, my mother was also already working as an intelligence agent for the security services – not as a field agent, of course, but using her skills as a mathematician. It took my mother two years to write her book, whilst also completing the other covert work, and looking after the child – a boy named Sherrinford, or Ford – full time. For years, she kept this secret from my father, and continued to work for the country as well as bringing up Ford. Aged seven, of course, he was sent to boarding school –”

_ “Seven?”  _ breaks in Greg. Mycroft, startled, looks up at him, the thread of his narrative broken.

“Yes –”

“Good grief. Is that when you were sent to boarding school too?”

Mycroft looks at him perplexedly. “No – I went to middle school closer to home, then to boarding school aged thirteen.”

Greg looks at him over the rim of his glass, as he takes another sip of whisky. Mycroft stares back, unable to read the expression in Greg’s eyes. Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door and Mycroft springs up to answer it. He accepts the tray with a nod and places the delicious-smelling steak and chips on the table next to the sofa. “Wow,” says Greg, surveying the meal. “Mind if I eat here, while you talk?” He hesitates with his hands on the edge of the tray. Mycroft resumes his seat and makes a  _ not at all  _ gesture towards the tray. Greg collects knife, fork and his plate, and settles back down into his corner of the sofa. “Carry on,” he says, through a mouthful of chip.

“I don’t know all the details. I have been able to access the documentation referring to the incident, but parts of it are still redacted or unclear. My mother was working on the calculations for some military plans which were extremely valuable international intelligence. Agents from a number of different countries applied pressure to her, but she simply reported this to her superiors and continued her work. My father still knew nothing of what she was doing. It was a different time; those in charge did not expect that foreign agents would target her child as a means of gaining leverage.”

“No,” breathes Greg, looking intently at Mycroft. Mycroft nods a little.

“My mother received a message from Ford’s school that he had gone missing, they believed in an attempt to run away. This was shortly followed by a communication from a foreign secret service, making clear that Ford was in their custody and was in mortal danger unless she handed over all the calculations she was working on for the plans. She remained loyal to her country, however, and immediately alerted her superiors using established emergency procedures. She and my father were immediately taken into custody of the security services, so that they should not also be vulnerable to direct attack. This was the first time that my father learned of her activities.”

“God,” says Greg, in hushed tones as Mycroft takes another sip of his whisky.

“The government was not then as strict in its refusal to negotiate,” says Mycroft, lips tight. “There was an attempted controlled swap of information for the boy, but – but something went wrong and the boy ended up dead.” His voice is flat, purposefully controlled. Greg watches him carefully. “The rest I know only from half-heard conversations and arguments between my parents. Most of it is more conjecture than fact.” He sighs. “My parents’ arguments over what had happened were vicious. My father felt completely betrayed. Through no fault of his own, his son had been killed. He blamed my mother. Out of guilt, she gave up work of any kind, and I was born the next year. She put everything into making me the model child, as a kind of – appeasement to my father. It didn’t work; when I had just turned seven, and Mummy was pregnant with Sherlock, my father had an affair. I didn’t understand it fully at the time, but I realise now. For a time, it seemed my father would leave us. In front of me everything was peaceful, but I would hear them screaming at one another once I was in bed. Sherlock’s birth was traumatic; she was in hospital for several weeks afterwards. My father was forced to take on more of the responsibility for taking me to school and so on. Perhaps it was that which made us real to him. He stayed.”

Mycroft’s eyes are fixed unseeingly on the leather arm of the sofa behind Greg. He stretches his arm along the back of the sofa and leans his head on his hand. He toes off his shoes and tucks his feet up into the leather cushions.

“After Sherlock’s birth there was a period of quieter relations between my parents. I didn’t hear them arguing as much. There was one occasion though – it was when Sherlock was about five. I don’t know what had caused it but I had stomachache and had gone downstairs to get some water. I heard my parents in the living room next door. They weren’t shouting, but the tone of their voices – it was scathing, full of contempt, almost hatred for one another. My father sounded so bleak. He said that Mummy hadn’t cared when Ford was killed. She made a terrible sort of hissing, laughing sound and said, ‘caring is not an advantage’. I remember how cold my feet were on the flagstones of the kitchen as I heard her say that. I slept on the floor next to Sherlock’s bed that night. I needed to hear him breathing.”

Greg’s eyes are soft and large. He puts his plate down on the coffee table, quietly. His feet are tucked around Mycroft’s, not quite touching, but close.

“I was thirteen when they sent me to boarding school. I did not want to go – I did not want to leave Sherlock – but they told me about the subjects and the libraries which would be open to me there. Eventually I went without too much trepidation. The only thing I worried about was Sherlock – he already hated school. It was too easy for him, and he was already in a class three years ahead of his age group, even at seven. The other children were...they were not kind. He did not understand how to communicate with them. I had not helped him with that, and I blamed myself.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” murmurs Greg. Mycroft shrugs one shoulder, just a little.

“After my first term, I came home to find Sherlock seriously distressed. He told me that he had heard Mummy shouting at Father; I guessed correctly that another affair was in progress. Sherlock told me that Father had threatened to leave her. He was afraid to tell Mummy that his school situation was getting worse. During the holiday, things returned somewhat to normal. My mother and father appeared to have reached an arrangement of some kind. Sherlock found holidays easier, away from school, and we were able to resume our usual brotherly relations. The next time I returned from school, however, Sherlock was doing much worse. Under the assumption, I suppose, that he was too young to understand what was happening, Mummy and Father had been rowing almost constantly every night. Sherlock even said that he had seen my father raise his hand to my mother, although he had stopped himself in time. Sherlock was terrified of Father leaving; Mummy, though she did it out of the goodness of her heart, had recognised both our intelligence. She was determined that Sherlock should not waste his natural talent, and was subjecting him to the same routine of extra tuition and lessons that I had undergone. Combined with the extreme stress that Sherlock experienced daily at school, the pressure was becoming crushing for him. Father was the only person in the house on a daily basis who provided uncritical love and attention for Sherlock. Sherlock had become almost monosyllabic in the time that I was away. Becoming frustrated one day – I don’t know why I said it – I tried to impress on him that he must not care so much about the taunts of his schoolfellows. I tried to show him that they were unimportant, that in a few years they would be gone from his life altogether. I heard the words come out of my mouth: ‘caring is not an advantage’.”

Greg groans quietly, adjusting his position on the sofa and reaching for his glass of water.

Mycroft presses his lips together. “I blame myself utterly for that. As a teenager, it seemed quite true; I had just had my first –” Mycroft picks at the rim of his glass, cheeks reddening, “– crush, on a older boy who had...taken advantage and then turned nasty. I was neither as patient nor as kind as I should have been with Sherlock, who was still only a young child. He was tormenting himself not only with the wish to be perfect for Mummy, but with the thought that he was constantly inadequate in the eyes of his classmates. I wanted him to be free of that. I went about it the wrong way.”

Greg shifts a little, takes another sip of water. His feet are gently in contact with Mycroft’s now.

“Nevertheless, the reports I received from Mummy and Father on Sherlock’s progress during the next term were more promising. Sherlock himself had ceased to write to me, but he was apparently excelling in all his schoolwork and pursuing many private interests of his own, not least his interest in chemistry and biology. He was becoming ever more skilled on the violin. I was concerned with my own affairs. I didn’t pay much attention. When I returned for summer holiday, Sherlock was almost lost to me. Mummy and Father had bought him a dog – Redbeard – who he now looked on as his main confidant. He was polite to me, but otherwise disengaged. It was similar with Mummy and Father; Father was always a little more able to reach him, but even that decreased. So it continued during my four years at boarding school. I was able to enter university a year early, and suddenly Oxford was available to me. There was no requirement that I return home even during summer holidays. Sherlock was ten. There seemed a huge gap between us now, and he still did not write to me, so I only saw him intermittently. News of his progress academically was very encouraging. By the time he went to boarding school I was twenty and in the last year of my degree, already undertaking internships at Westminster during every holiday. In the back of my mind I knew that boarding school must be torture for him, but Mummy and Father were implacable that he must go, in order to afford him the best possible chances for university. I did not argue. I was busy elsewhere.” There is a bitter twist to Mycroft’s mouth.

“Around that time, I worked on a project with a man who –” Mycroft stops, sighs and takes a sip of water. “We had a relationship. It was not…” Mycroft’s sentence peters out, and he stares past Greg’s shoulder at the wall. “It lasted, in its way, for about four years, until Sherlock got into Cambridge. One weekend, I received an urgent call: the Dean had not been able to reach my parents and had found me listed as a secondary emergency contact. Sherlock had been found in a terrible state in his room in college. You know: the usual. I went there immediately; he had been hospitalised. While still under the influence, he talked to me freely for the first time in years. His own powers of observation and deduction are as acute as my own. It is hard to explain – but the main thing one sees is  _ emotion,  _ or rather perhaps endless details which add up to emotion, intention and thought in their magnitude. On a daily basis it is easy to become...overwhelmed by a tide of undirected, intense emotion. And the human condition – for every person you see glowing internally with generosity, kindness or love, there are ten consumed with mundane, petty, or even vicious thoughts. Sherlock, it transpired, had been buying and using drugs at boarding school for some time, in order to cope with not only the relentless bullying, but also the sheer fact of being shut up with other boys, always thinking and feeling – as he put it – loudly.”

“Shit,” mutters Greg.

Mycroft looks shamefaced. “I am not proud of my part in this.”

“I understand – but it’s not your fault. You were just a kid yourself.”

“Of all the people who could have helped him…” Mycroft stares down at the fabric of his own trouser-leg. “I knew that the reason he was so overwhelmed was because he  _ cared  _ what he saw on all these strangers’ faces. I had learned early to try and disengage, with varying levels of success. I told him again that ‘caring is not an advantage’.” Mycroft runs his fingers through his hair. “Again, I had just suffered…” he swallows. “Suffered in a relationship. I truly believed what I said. I threatened Sherlock with telling Mummy and Father but he begged me not to. We were both afraid, I believe, of what it would do to their relationship, to know that their sons were so – were not –”. Mycroft takes a deep breath. “I acquiesced. I tried to get him help through the University, but I believe Sherlock never took that help. Nevertheless, he seemed to be doing better for a time, and I thought it was because he was training himself to disengage. ‘Caring is not an advantage’ became almost a mantra between us, then. I had begun doing more...active work with the security services, and as a result Sherlock was left almost entirely alone again. Romantic relationships for me, at that time – were not…and I lived by my own advice. For a long time. The next I heard, Mummy was up in arms: Sherlock had given up his degree and disappeared to London. I knew what must be next. I took leave and attempted to find him. I brought him back to my flat, when I did, but he had hardened still further, and it became obvious that the living situation would be entirely untenable. I found him a flat, but he refused it; he was terribly angry with me. He disappeared again. I made repeated attempts to get him back, to at least stop him sleeping on the streets, but he pushed away every effort. I was reduced to merely surveilling him alongside my regular work. That state of affairs continued for years. Every time I had to go away for work, I was forced to allow others to continue to watch him for me. The anxiety was…” Mycroft shrugs, exhales. “A dirty needle, an alley fight – that something like that should put an end to him –” He shifts on the sofa and knots both his hands together in his lap. Their feet are still touching. Neither of them move away.

“You saw him when he found you,” says Mycroft. “He was…” he gestures with one hand.

“Pretty far gone,” finishes Greg, quietly. “Yep.”

“You know how it went. We are not good friends, my brother and I,” says Mycroft, sardonically. He can feel the weak sting of tears behind his eyes, and clamps down on the feeling. “It is my fault. I cannot express how glad I am that he has John, now. Somehow, he has managed to find a way out of the – the  _ strictures  _ that our parents and I placed him under. He deserves this now.” His bottom lip shakes a little and he purses his lips into a tight line, picks up his whisky glass again. There are just a couple of sips left. He steals a glance at Greg through his lashes. His brown eyes are shining unbearably with sympathy.

“But you –” murmurs Greg. Mycroft twists his mouth in a bitter smile.

“Sherlock relies on you. You were the first person to give him – something else to live for, to try for. I cannot and will not take that away.” Greg opens his mouth to argue, but Mycroft throws him a look of such pleading that he closes it again. “Quite apart from that – I have as part of this told you my entire  _ relationship  _ history.” He sniffs scathingly. “There have been other…encounters, of course, but I am hardly a good relationship prospect.”

“Well come to that neither am I,” scoffs Greg. “I’ve had total two proper relationships in my life, if we’re not counting – erm – encounters,” he smiles a little and pokes Mycroft’s foot with his toe. Mycroft can’t help a very small smile in return. “One of those a marriage where I remained totally faithful for twenty-five years and got repeatedly cheated on. The other didn’t last because it was basically a glorified rebound thing; I mistook comfort for happiness. That’s not exactly a shining track record.”

“Both women,” says Mycroft, and he’s not even sure why he said it. Internally, he curses the whisky. Greg’s expression is a mixture of curiosity and amusement.

“Yes…” he says. “So? If you’d actually read that briefing on me you’d know I was with a few guys before I got married. It was dangerous times though. I wasn’t particularly into the scene. And being a policeman, back then… A couple of guys after my marriage broke up, too.”

“But all short-term things.” Mycroft can’t understand why he’s still questioning Greg on this point.  _ Stop talking, stop talking. _

“Are you asking me if the idea of a relationship with a man bothers me?” asks Greg. Mycroft rolls his eyes: a huge grin is developing on the DI’s face as he watches Mycroft’s cheeks go bright red. “You are. God, Mycroft, of course it doesn’t fucking bother me.” Suddenly the pressure of Greg’s foot against his own is a little more insistent. Mycroft doesn’t withdraw his foot. “In case you didn’t notice, I had the opportunity of a perfectly good night out with Justin the Canadian lawyer while you were away in India. Just my type, too – tall, beautiful eyes – but I just wanted to get home and email you.”

Mycroft is speechless. It’s possible his mouth is slightly open. Greg snorts a laugh. “Jesus, Mycroft. You have  _ absolutely  _ no idea what you do to me, do you?” his tone is light and fond. Mycroft has not a clue how to reply.

“So,” says Greg kindly, looking directly into Mycroft’s eyes. “What about professional reasons? You said there are lots of those, too.”

“Two,” says Mycroft a little haughtily.

“Oh, two,” grins Greg. “And I bet they’re iron-clad.” Suddenly Mycroft feels a little beleaguered, a little mocked. Greg obviously sees a change in his expression, because he looks immediately sorry and leans in, shuffling forward on the sofa. “Hey,” he says softly. “I’m not taking the piss. I just – it sounds stupid but I’m  _ happy.  _ I’ve wanted to know more about you for so long. You’re a hard man to get to know. Even if nothing ever happens between us, at least I’ll have got to know you better. That makes me happy.” The fingers of his right hand are woven with Mycroft’s left, now. Mycroft looks down at them and cannot let go. He flicks his eyes up to Greg’s, and gives a little nod. “Tell me about the professional stuff,” says Greg, softly.

“Work is – all-consuming, with me,” replies Mycroft, slowly. “I work all the time. Not only travel and meetings, but – you worry about me not getting enough sleep. It’s because I’m always thinking about work. It’s hard to explain, but that is…better, for me, than having nothing to occupy my thoughts.” 

“It’s like cocaine, for Sherlock,” says Greg, bluntly. “Or murders.”

Mycroft gives a terse nod.

“Okay. I work all the time too. It’s not like my brain’s not on the job at night as well. Sometimes I wake up screaming from nightmares. Sometimes I’m afraid for – for whoever I’m with,” says Greg, carefully. “And as for seeing people as they really are – you could say I’ve got some experience. It’s not every  _ moment  _ of every day, but it is every day, anyway. The worst of people.” Mycroft feels Greg’s fingers tighten, just a little.

There’s a small silence. “Apart from that,” says Mycroft, “my other professional concern is that politics is still not the most advantageous arena in which to be openly gay.”

Greg is quiet for a few moments, his head on one side. “Neither’s the Force, to be honest,” he admits. “But it’s changing. I mean, Sally tried to set me up with Justin. And – I know you can’t really tell me about it – but are you really  _ in  _ politics, as such? And surely, if there have been…encounters…what politician worth their salt isn’t going to have equipped himself with that information already?”

Mycroft acknowledges the truth of this with a slight shrug. He is staring again at their fingers, tangled together.

“Mycroft…I can’t believe I’m actually asking this, because God knows it could come with an answer I’m not ready to hear. But if everything else was equal – if Sherlock somehow…gave his permission or something –” he forestalls Mycroft’s appalled interruption with his left hand, held up “–just hypothetical, I promise – what then? Would you…consider – ugh, why is it so difficult to talk about this stuff?” He scrubs his left hand through his hair. “Would you consider being…with me?” he finishes, softly.

Mycroft can only blink at him for a couple of seconds. Then all that comes to his lips is, “but  _ why?”  _ His cheeks are flushed with red.

For a moment, Greg looks both confused and hurt. Then Mycroft sees his expression change into one of gentle sadness. “I thought you didn’t understand, and you don’t, do you?” Greg mutters. Mycroft bridles at that, and is opening his mouth to protest when Greg suddenly shifts on the sofa. Now he’s kneeling on the central cushions where before his feet were tangled with Mycroft’s. He’s almost between Mycroft’s legs. He leans forward, eyes so wide and dark and thoughtful. “You don’t get it, Mycroft. What I said the other morning – I  _ can’t stop thinking about you.  _ I wake up hoping to see a text or email from you. I see things in the paper or on the news that make me think ‘oh, wonder if Mycroft was involved in that’. I hear things that make me laugh and I want to tell them to you, to see if I can make you laugh too. I think about eating with you every lunchtime and dinnertime, and breakfast too, come to that. Sundays feel wrong if I’m not with you. I was afraid for you when you were in India, and so worried when you came back ill. I imagine watching stupid detective shows with you and laughing with you about the ridiculous plotlines. It’s only been twice but now every night I think about falling asleep in the same bed as you –” he presses his fingers into his eyes and screws up his face, then takes them away and looks desperately into Mycroft’s eyes again. “Fuck, if you want to know it all I can’t stop thinking about your hand in mine, about how it feels when we hug. You smell – fuck, you smell amazing Mycroft, I just want to bury my head in your neck whenever I’m near you. I keep replaying the feeling of your lips on mine –” Greg interrupted himself with a hopeless hand gesture. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I know that isn’t what you want to hear – I just…” he opens and closes his hand on his leg. “I swear – I promise it’s not just some stupid crush. I like you. For  _ you.”  _ He’s finished by staring miserably at Mycroft’s tie. Mycroft fights the urge to straighten it.

“Greg…” he says. He doesn’t actually have a plan for what to say. He has no idea how to act in this situation. “I –” he reaches out his left hand and winds his fingers into Greg’s, “I would.”

It seems to take a very long time for Greg to realise what he has said. Mycroft thinks he may never forget the look in Greg’s eyes, then. There is a long, charged minute, and this is the moment in all Mycroft’s life when he knows most surely that someone wants to kiss him. Instead, after a few seconds Greg pulls their hands towards him and places a soft, brushing kiss to the inside of Mycroft’s wrist, on his racing pulse point. And then he grins. “Okay,” he says.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I truly love you guys for being here and reading <3

[05:37] _Walking along the river to work again this morning. I hope that you slept well last night, and that this text arrives before you wake. MH_

 **[06:16]** **_Lovely to wake up to :) Makes my Monday morning automatically better. Can’t believe how early you went to work. How was your Manchester trip? Missed you yesterday. G_ **

[06:22] _Long meeting this afternoon to prepare for. Manchester was successful thank you. But yes, I wish we had been able to spend Sunday together. MH_

 **[06:23]** **_So I met up with John for a drink last night… G_ **

[06:24] _Your ellipsis suggests that thereby hangs a tale? MH_

 **[06:26]** **_Yeah, a bit of a tale. I told John I’m considering asking you out on a date. G_ **

[06:27] _Oh. And are you? MH_

 **[06:28]** **_Mycroft Holmes, will you go out on a date with me? G_ **

[06:29] _Detective Inspector Lestrade...this is so sudden. So inappropriate. MH_

 **[06:30]** **_Can I take that as a yes? G_ **

[06:31] _Yes, I believe you can. MH_

 **[06:32]** **_Good. I wanted to warn you in case you get any weird messages from Sherlock. But I’m hoping John might be able to restrain him. G_ **

[06:33] _Vain hope, I suspect. Nevertheless, rather a good plan. MH_

 **[06:35]** **_I take that as a high compliment from the master strategist himself. G_ **

[06:36] _You make me sound Machiavellian. MH_

 **[06:36]** **_Well if the beautifully-tailored suit fits... G_ **

[06:37] _How daring of you, Detective Inspector._ _When is this date? MH_

 **[06:38]** **_As soon as you are next free. I just…want to see you. G_ **

[06:40] _I regret to say that my next appreciable amount of time ‘off’ may be next Sunday. MH_

 **[06:41]** **_Running date? Come to the park near me then I’ll cook us Sunday lunch. A lazy date I know, but lovely. (I’ll wine and dine you if you prefer.) G_ **

[06:45] _That sounds extremely appealing. I have four formal dinners this week. I am not keen to add another. Not sure about the running though. MH_

 **[06:46]** **_Why not? If this has anything to do with getting all hot and sweaty in front of me you should remember that the last time I saw you like that, I tried to kiss you... G_ **

[06:51] _It might. And you did in fact kiss me. MH_

 **[06:52]** **_Exactly. You look wonderful all red and flushed. It puts ideas into my head. G_ **

[06:53] _Sounds worrisome. MH_

 **[06:54]** **_No, no. Just...frustrating. It seems so long until I’ll see you. G_ **

[06:55] _Agreed. MH_

*

When Mycroft arrives back from work on Monday night – exhausted, and unsure whether he will even be able to go for a run before falling asleep – he turns on the living room lights to find Sherlock staring at him disconcertingly from an armchair. Mycroft suppresses a jump and an exclamation; he might as well have given himself the satisfaction, though, as Sherlock smirks with amusement anyway.

Mycroft gives him a small frown which serves for _What are you doing here, brother dear?_

Sherlock flicks his fingers on the arm of the chair and fixes his gaze intently on Mycroft: _I needed to see you, Mycroft._

A raised eyebrow on Mycroft’s part as he slips off his shoes at the door. _Yes?_

Pressure of those cupid bow lips. _Don’t play innocent. Sit down where I can see you._

Mycroft sighs loudly for effect, cultivating his bored and annoyed sneer to a high pitch. His heart is beating a pounding tattoo against his ribs. He sits down on the sofa, turning himself to face his little brother. _Well?_

Glancing flicks of Sherlock’s silver eyes. _John tells me something is…happening._ “Lestrade,” is all Sherlock says out loud.

Mycroft exhales as calmly and quietly as he can, and nods, once. “He...contacted me today.” He concentrates on the half-truth.

Sherlock is watching him with narrowed eyes. _I can tell he’s been here, brother. So what is the extent of it?_

And suddenly Mycroft, tired and worn, allows his face to relax. He props his elbow on the arm of the sofa and leans his head on his hand. He lets everything show.

Suspicion, confusion and then a hint of alarm flicker across Sherlock’s face. His eyes dart, scanning and probing for the truth. Mycroft is almost shaking with the fear and newness of allowing everything he feels to show to such a skilled observer. There is a long silence. Finally Sherlock clears his throat, just a little. _Only this much?_

 _Yes. That’s everything._ Mycroft feels strangely like giving a defensive shrug.

Sherlock’s expression is a mixture of the petulant horror that children feel about their parents’ romantic matters, and...sympathy. Mycroft fights the urge to allow his eyebrows to skyrocket upwards. _He is a good man,_ warns Sherlock.

Mycroft nods and sighs. _Too good._

They both look at the carpet for a minute.

“This will not cause…problems?” asks Mycroft, tentatively.

Sherlock’s face is a mask of scorn for a moment, but then he seems to consider, flicking his eyes over Mycroft’s face. And then something that Mycroft thought he would never be allowed to see again, something that since Sherlock was nine years old he has only been able to glimpse through surveillance. His little brother allows his thoughts to show. To an outside observer perhaps no change would be visible on Sherlock’s haughty face; but to Mycroft everything is clear. He is shown the depth and power of Sherlock’s love and the sum total of it all is _John._

 _You are lucky, little brother,_ is all he says. _You deserve it._

They stare silently at one another. Mycroft’s chest feels tight and full.

 _Lestrade deserves the best,_ Sherlock replies. There is just a hint of what, between them, passes for a smile. Then he stands in a dramatic swirl of long, dark coat and strides out of the flat.

Mycroft puts his hands over his face and allows himself to breathe, deeply. He feels oddly as though he is floating.

*

The handrail beside the river presses cold into Mycroft’s elbows through the fabric of his jacket and shirt. He listens to the purr of the dial tone five times before Greg answers.

“Yes?” his voice is deep and sleep-roughened, resigned, the voice of a man who has been woken too many times at the crack of dawn and has trained himself to answer through a fog of sleep, without even looking at the screen.

Mycroft is instantly penitent. “Greg – my sincere apologies – I thought you would be awake by now.”

“Mycroft?” he still sounds wary. “Is everything OK? Sherlock –”

Too many years where Mycroft was obliged to wake Greg regularly to help with some emergency Sherlock had got himself into. Mycroft closes his eyes briefly, trying to banish his embarrassment. “No – I –” he cringes thinking about the words _just wanted to hear your voice._ “I – simply felt the need to speak to you.” Was that any better? His cheeks feel hot in the crisp morning air.

“Oh. _Oh.”_ Greg’s surprise is obvious, but Mycroft can hear a smile in his voice now. “Well that’s made my Tuesday automatically better, too.”

Mycroft feels his own lips curl into an involuntary smile. He doesn’t know what to say, just wants to listen to Greg talk in that sleep-rough voice until he melts gently through the barrier and into the Thames. Instead, he clears his throat slightly and says, “I received a – visitation from Sherlock last night.”

Greg snorts with laughter. “Oh, you mean he broke in without a by-your-leave and was sitting in your front room when you got home, staring at you creepily? I _hate_ it when he does that. Although – how did he get past your security?”

“Long-standing arrangement that he should be allowed in, no matter what,” says Mycroft softly, his eyes fixed on a distant building on the South Bank.

“Ah. Yeah, course,” mumbles Greg in return. “So…what did he have to say?”

Mycroft can hear the caution in his voice, the conflicting thoughts: _he wouldn’t have rung me just to chat if Sherlock had forbidden everything absolutely, but a personal visit from Sherlock – surely that can’t be good news?_ “He was...surprisingly forgiving of the idea,” says Mycroft, quickly.

He can hear Greg’s rapid intake of breath. “My God, Mycroft –” he stops for a moment. “I – I’m not sure what to say but –”

“I can hear you smiling,” says Mycroft.

“Yeah? I can hear you too,” grins Greg. “I just...I want to be where you are right now, or I want you here – I need –” he sounds a little breathless, and stops short. “Sorry,” he adds, quickly. “I just need to see you. Hug you.”

“No – Greg – I...understand,” says Mycroft. _“Completely,”_ he adds, emphatically.

There’s a short silence, then Greg’s low voice comes over the line again. “Busy day ahead?” he asks.

“Yes,” sighs Mycroft. “A full day of meetings followed by formal dinner at Gray’s Inn. I do not expect to be home until the early hours of the morning. I may go straight back to the office.” He pinches the top of his nose with the fingers of his right hand. “And you?”

“Just paperwork, unless some poor bastard cops it during the day. I’ve got a stack as tall as me of stuff to tackle on my desk.” He groans. “I should get up, have a shower and get on with it.”

“You should,” smiles Mycroft. “It’s late.”

“Ye gods Mycroft, it’s –” there’s a pause as Greg takes his phone away from his ear to check the time, “– only six-thirty. Not everyone springs out of bed before dawn, you know.” He yawns.

“And I must continue my walk to work,” replies Mycroft regretfully.

“Alright, well… Sunday,” says Greg. Then sighs. “It’s a long way away.”

“It is.” Mycroft stares at the lapping brown edge of the river. “I...should go.”

“See you, Mycroft. For our running date,” says Greg, his voice low and dark.

“Goodbye Greg,” returns Mycroft quietly, and at last hangs up. His knees feel a little odd as he resumes his walk.

 

 **From:** Lestrade, Greg

 **To:** Holmes, Mycroft

 **Date:** Tues, May 5, 2015 at 10:06 AM

 **Subject:** Something to think about

Hi Mycroft,

So...a full day of meetings. I thought you ought to know that it was wonderful to hear your voice this morning. It was so unexpected, and I’ve been thinking about our run together on Sunday. I’m sure you realised as we spoke that just thinking about having all that time together (and specifically the fact that you’ll be all hot and breathing hard and wearing those running tights...) was having an effect.

I wanted to tell you that I had a truly enjoyable shower this morning. Maybe it’s reckless to say this but I don’t think anything will be able to spoil my mood today.

Four days until I see you. I hope you get to read this email in your meeting…

Love,

Greg

 

 **From:** Holmes, Mycroft

 **To:** Lestrade, Greg

 **Date:** Tues, May 5, 2015 at 10:13 AM

 **Subject:** Re: Something to think about

Dear Greg,

Wonderful. Well this meeting has suddenly become a lot _harder_ to concentrate on.

Your voice is very deep when you have just woken up.

Best,

Mycroft

 

 **From:** Lestrade, Greg

 **To:** Holmes, Mycroft

 **Date:** Tues, May 5, 2015 at 10:15 AM

 **Subject:** Re: Something to think about

Hi,

Ah, great. The desired effect.

Interesting. Perhaps my morning voice and I should give you a sleepy wake up call later this week (not tomorrow – I’m secretly hoping you’ll take every possible moment to sleep instead of going straight from one workday to the next!).

Love,

Greg

 

 **From:** Holmes, Mycroft

 **To:** Lestrade, Greg

 **Date:** Tues, May 5, 2015 at 10:20 AM

 **Subject:** Re: Something to think about

Dear Greg,

Such unbearable teasing…

Best,

Mycroft

 

 **From:** Lestrade, Greg

 **To:** Holmes, Mycroft

 **Date:** Tues, May 5, 2015 at 10:24 AM

 **Subject:** Re: Something to think about

I may be teasing but I make good on my promises, Mycroft. Four days.

Love,

Greg

*

 **[06:21]** **_I’m probably kidding myself, but I hope you're asleep right now after your posh Gray’s Inn dinner. Got a new murder case. When the phone rang I hoped it was you. Donovan's voice was a real disappointment. G_ **

[07:56] _I did sleep. Hope the murder case is not too distressing or difficult. MH_

 **[10:07]** **_It's a tough one. I've asked Sherlock to come and John says they're on the way. Maybe His Majesty's not going to throw a strop at all. Glad you slept – another dinner out tonight? G_ **

[12:55] _Not out, but dinner meeting at the club. MH_

 **[23:58]** **_Sherlock's basically solved it but there are more loose ends and paperwork to tie up. Just getting to bed for a few hours then back out early. Hope all's going well tonight. G_ **

[02:03] _Just finished my run – fifteen miles at last. MH_

*

 **[13:43]** **_Thursday, and amazingly today I get to eat lunch! Two days to go. G_ **

[13:52] _All well with the case? MH_

 **[13:54]** **_Fine, and nothing off about Sherlock's manner with me. Just as rude as ever. G_ **

[13:57] _Strange. But a relief. MH_

 **[13:58]** **_Another night out tonight? G_ **

[13:59] _Private members’ charitable auction in Westminster. Joining another call now. MH_

 **[20:48]** **_Not only did I get to eat lunch, I'm also making dinner in my own home! What a day. How’s the auction food? G_ **

[21:06] _I wish you were making me dinner instead. MH_

 **[21:07]** **_Had enough fancy dinners for this week? I wish I was cooking for you too. G_ **

[21:32] _This is interminable. MH_

 **[21:35]** **_The dinner or this week? G_ **

[21:36] _Both. MH_

*

[05:46] _Good morning Greg. It is Friday. MH_

 **[06:17]** **_So it is, Mycroft. What does your Friday hold? And why will you be working on a Saturday? Only one day to go… G_ **

[06:19] _Today I am sitting very quietly in on meetings at Westminster. I shall be invisible. Dinner with two ministers tonight. And tomorrow I shall be briefing a number of different individuals on their actions in light of what I learn today. MH_

 **[06:22]** **_What a terrible use of a Saturday. You could be spending it with me. G_ **

[06:24] _Put like that, it does seem a waste of time. What will you do with your Saturday? MH_

 **[06:27]** **_Run in the morning with Jenny, then cleaning and shopping for our Sunday lunch. And I need to buy some new running togs because hell could freeze over before I let you see me in the jogging bottoms I’m using at the moment. I think I’ve actually had them since the early years of my marriage. G_ **

[06:28] _I see. I have found running tights to be extremely practical and comfortable. I strongly recommend them. MH_

 **[06:30]** **_Oh yeah? I think I prefer something a bit baggier. G_ **

[06:31] _Medically I understand running tights are the preferred option. I’m sure I read a peer-reviewed study on it recently. MH_

 **[06:33]** **_I’d love to read that, if you can find it again… G_ **

**[06:33]** **_By the way, you are a huge flirt, Mycroft Holmes. G_ **

[06:37] _I can say with complete certainty that is the first time that particular description has been applied to me. MH_

 **[06:39]** **_This week is torture. I just want to be close to you. G_ **

[06:40] _How close? MH_

 **[06:41]** **_As close as you’ll let me. G_ **

*

[05:45] _Good morning Greg. It’s not cold but it is rather showery – I hope your run this morning does not prove too wet and muddy. Nearly at the office. MH_

 **[07:31]** **_God Mycroft, you must have been up at the crack of dawn, or before. What time can we reasonably schedule our run for tomorrow? Could be less than 24 hours until I see you... G_ **

[09:08] _I am sure I will be awake, no matter what time. MH_

 **[09:57]** **_Bloody hell, my legs are knackered after this morning. Sure you don’t just want to wear your running tights for Sunday lunch, and forget the run…? G_ **

[10:02] _Quite sure thank you Greg. Are you going shopping soon? Remember, medical science endorses running tights. MH_

 **[10:15]** **_Yeah, just had a shower and getting ready to go out. If only you could come with me. You could give me your opinion in the changing room. G_ **

[10:18] _You could always send me pictures. MH_

 **[10:20]** **_And spoil tomorrow morning’s surprise? Never. G_ **

[22:39] _Greg? MH_

 **[22:40]** **_Yes Mycroft? G_ **

[22:51] _I’m nervous. MH_

 **[22:54]** **_Good nervous or bad nervous? G_ **

[22:57] _I don’t know. Both. MH_

 **[22:58]** **_That’s OK. I am too. You know there’s no pressure, right? I know we’ve been flirting and stuff but I’m not expecting anything from you. G_ **

[23:01] _Thank you. MH_

 **[23:02]** **_All I want is a hug and to bury my nose in your neck. G_ **

[23:03] _That is…strangely appealing. MH_

 **[23:05]** **_So I’ll meet you at the park at 8am? 9am? <Google Maps pin attachment> G_ **

[23:10] _8am. I will see you there. MH_


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the wait for an update! I'm travelling on a long work trip and only have my company laptop and personal phone with me. I'm too paranoid to write fanfic on my company laptop (imagine if the IT Department somehow Knew argh) but this story is fucking EATING its way out of my brain and I had to write it on my phone. Just to warn you, this is long, and the date's not even over...
> 
> I reserve the right to make (minor) edits to this chapter once I'm back on a proper screen. For some reason I find the editing much harder than the writing on such a small screen.
> 
> Most importantly, thank you for waiting and I hope you enjoy it ❤️

Mycroft's hands are tightly clenched around the water bottle he has brought with him. In the boot of the sleek black car is a bag with a carefully-packed change of clothes and other necessaries for lunch after the running date. His stomach squirms and roils with nerves. The car pulls smoothly to the gate of the park. The security detail, Sangha, opens the front door at a stately pace, unfolding his bulk from the front seat with slow deliberation. He opens the door for Mycroft, who passes his dry tongue over his lips and sighs, an attempt to draw enough air. Even deep breaths don't seem to be filling his lungs properly.

He smooths the fingertips of his right hand down his hip, following for a few inches the seam of his red and black running tights. And then he can't avoid it any longer: he steps out into the crisp morning air, and takes the few steps through the park gates.

“Alright!” Greg has clearly been waiting for him, because now he’s waving across from a few metres away, where he’s obviously been using some communal gym equipment to stretch and warm up. Mycroft’s feet seem to remember how to walk towards Greg in a relatively normal manner, which is good, because _soft bright silver hair, clinging grey running tights, dark red top which clearly defines his physique, toned, strong arms, tanned neck more clearly on display than in his work suits, and we spoke – this man knows...so much –_

He stops a metre or so from Greg, and he can feel the tight unnaturalness of his own smile. Greg looks at him with dark, wide brown eyes, and Mycroft's stomach flips with the overwhelming, full-body _need_ to hold this man. They look at one another for a long, silent moment.

Greg clears his throat. “So...we’re being tailed?” he asks, nodding at Sangha, who has taken up a solid stance at the entrance to the park.

Mycroft's gaze drops to the toes of his own trainers. “I'm afraid so,” he says quietly. Frustration _–_ at this situation, at his own inability to react correctly to Greg's...friendship _–_ feels as though it will choke him. Flirting by text had been easy, a kind of false confidence put in place by the anonymity of the screen. But now...he glances back up from the corner of his eye, afraid to see the disappointment in Greg's face.

Instead Greg is looking at him steadily, with an expression that Mycroft finds unreadable. Greg grins as he catches Mycroft's eye. “An officer of the law isn't enough to protect you then?” he asks softly.

“Unfortunately not,” returns Mycroft wryly, drawing confidence from Greg's tone. “This is why I run indoors.”

“I don't know,” smiles Greg. “You could have some fun with it.” He reaches out for the bar of the gym equipment and starts a lunge leg stretch. “You could start running along the Thames to work, make them cycle along behind you with a boom box. Old-school training montage.” He checks out Mycroft's expression through his eyelashes, snorting as he sees the effect of his words, and wobbling dangerously on one leg as he changes position.

Mycroft can't help an answering smile. “Appalling.” He starts his stretches too, pulling each arm tight across his chest in turn. “In fact they do have to follow me at a distance in the car whenever I walk to work.”

Greg grimaces and nods, then tips his head to one side. “I imagined so. Not much privacy for you though.”

Mycroft gives a little assenting dip of his chin as he leans forward into a leg stretch. “No. It can be frustrating.” Their eyes meet. Mycroft aches to touch Greg, in any way at all. He can feel his cheeks redden, and he looks down at the floor as he bounces into the stretch.

“Rather you were safe, though,” says Greg, voice a little strained. “He armed?” he throws an appraising glance at Sangha.

“Yes,” returns Mycroft, shifting over to stretch the other leg. He breathes into the stretch, allowing the pattern of his breaths to deepen the lunge naturally.

“Good. It's more than I am,” smiles Greg, throwing Mycroft a look from under heavy eyelids. He very deliberately catches Mycroft's gaze and drops his eyes to his own skin-tight outfit. “And you're certainly not,” he adds, tongue darting out to lick his bottom lip. Mycroft's skin feels hot, everywhere, and he can't look away from Greg's open smile of admiration. His stomach flips.

“Indeed,” he replies, fighting to keep his tone calm. “I am glad to see you took my advice into account while shopping yesterday.”

“Well, you can't argue with peer-reviewed research, can you?” asks Greg, his voice low and dark.

“Certainly not.” And now Mycroft, discomfited, flushed and terrified though he is, can feel it again: that desperate, magnetic pull to just _hold_ Greg, to have his hands on him, to touch that beautiful tanned skin, anywhere and everywhere he's allowed. It's an almost painful ache, and he can't look away from Greg's deep brown eyes. The expression in them is one of hunger. He wants to give himself up to it.

For a few moments, neither of them moves, and then Mycroft breaks the nervous tension. He looks away and judges his leg stretches complete, pulling his right arm behind his head to loosen his shoulders. In a moment, Greg is behind him, gently touching his arm, loosening and moving Mycroft's clasping left hand. “You should keep your hand here,” he murmurs, voice deep. “It puts less stress on the elbow joint that way.”

Breathlessly, Mycroft nods a little. His mouth is suddenly completely dry. He imagines he can feel the swirling pattern of every one of Greg's fingerprints imprinting themselves into his skin. The proximity of Greg is intoxicating. He would only have to lean back, just a little...he imagines Greg's hands on his hipbones, slipping around to encircle his waist. He takes a deep breath, and switches arms. He feels Greg's touch fall away _– unacceptable –_ and clasps his elbow incorrectly, pulling too hard at his arm. Greg chuckles softly behind him and _there_ are his hands, moving and softening the grip. His breath catches as the pad of Greg's thumb strokes softly, once, across the pulse point at his wrist. He had masturbated quickly and effectively in the shower before leaving the house, but it is no good _–_ already his cock is plumping just a little, from these innocent touches alone. He grimaces and pulls out of the stretch and out of Greg's grasp. There's no room for this, not in these running tights, anyway.

Greg takes a controlled breath. “Can I suggest,” he asks innocently, “that we have quite a short run today? You're not used to running outside and it can be quite punishing on the knees. And anyway I need to get lunch on.” His eyes crinkle as he looks up at Mycroft.

“Certainly,” returns Mycroft, as casually as he can manage. “That sounds sensible.”

“I assume,” says Greg, looking at a tree in the middle distance, “that your security bloke will be happy to remain _outside_ the flat.”

Mycroft clears his throat softly. “Quite so.”

“Good,” says Greg, and his voice sends a shiver down Mycroft's spine. “Shall we get on with it then?”

And then he's sprinting away, laughing and turning to watch Mycroft follow him, jogging backwards a few steps before putting on a burst of speed as Mycroft starts to run in earnest after him. There's a strange bubble of happiness threatening to burst inside Mycroft's chest as he draws alongside. It feels good to be outside in the crisp morning air, weak rays of the early morning sun warming his skin. He feels like laughing.

“This early sprint is a waste of valuable energy for distance running,” he pants as they race along the path between two lines of trees.

“We're not doing fifteen miles today Mycroft,” gasps out Greg in return, throwing him a grin. “I just want to do enough to get you all hot and sweaty, then we're going home,” he takes advantage of Mycroft's huff of surprise _–_ a waste of breath _–_ to pull ahead, laughing.

Mycroft, pink to the ears with shock, disbelief and arousal, slows to a rather steadier pace, falling comfortably into his jogging rhythm. From here, the view is...spectacular. Greg certainly went all-in on the running tights. They cling everywhere, and the man has an absolutely gorgeous arse.

Greg glances over his shoulder, and catches him looking. Mycroft turns even redder, and looks down at the path in front of him instead. Greg slows down to jog beside him. Mycroft's whole body thrills as he feels a brief touch of Greg's fingers to his elbow.

“Like what you see?” asks Greg, and his voice is rough and low. Mycroft glances up at him, though, and sees that his eyes are surprisingly earnest. It's not a rhetorical question, at all.

Greg's insecurity gives him courage. He returns the gentle touch, running his fingers down the underside of Greg's forearm. “Of course,” he says, and to his own ears he sounds too brusque, too businesslike, but Greg takes a quick, deep breath and bites his bottom lip. He slows his jogging pace.

“I just want to kiss you, Mycroft,” he murmurs, and Mycroft can almost feel it, imagines Greg pressing him back against that tree right there, the bark rough through the thin layers of his clothing _–_

“Come on,” he insists, his tone clipped. “Sangha will come to investigate if we dawdle. Let's just _–_ ” he gestures to the path in front of them. Greg nods at him and they pick up the pace.

They complete another three laps of the park, by which time Mycroft's leg has begun to ache. Running on tarmac certainly is different to the treadmill. “Perhaps this should be our last lap,” he pants.

Greg looks over at him out of the corner of his eye, and damn the man, he _is_ a good detective. “Your leg's hurting, isn't it?” he asks. “Why didn't you say?” he reaches out a hand to grab Mycroft's arm, and slows them to a gentle jog.

Mycroft grits his teeth. “I assure you, it is nothing,” he says, rather stiffly. “I am simply unused to running on this surface.”

“Yeah, alright,” returns Greg, disbelief written all over his face. “Well I'm ready to get back, anyway.” They jog gently back to the gym equipment, and go through a quick cool-down stretch. Mycroft can _feel_ Greg noticing that he doesn't stretch his left leg as thoroughly as his right.

“Your car waiting out there?” Greg asks breathlessly as he finishes his final arm stretches. “It's only a five minute walk back to mine but we might as well take it if it's there.”

“Yes,” agrees Mycroft, trying not to sound too relieved. “I must admit that I am looking forward to a shower and a change of clothes,” he adds, to move the conversation away from allusions to his leg.

“Mmm,” smiles Greg in agreement, catching his eye. “Me too.” Mycroft catches his breath short and looks away from those intense brown eyes.

*

In the car, he offers Greg the bottle of water, and tries not to stare too obviously as he drinks. He takes it afterwards and lets his eyes close as his lips encircle the neck of the bottle. He swallows down several gulps of water and looks out of the window as he replaces the bottle cap with slightly shaking fingers.

Before he can recover his composure, the car pulls up outside Greg's house. Mycroft takes a deep breath.

“Your security bloke going to want to come in and check the place?” asks Greg. His voice is a little tight.

“No, I don't believe that will be necessary,” replies Mycroft. He tries to flex his left leg subtly as he moves to get out of the car. His driver is standing impassively by the door, holding out Mycroft's bag of clothes. “Thank you, Elliott,” Mycroft says. “Await my text later, please.”

“Sir.” She nods, and returns to the front seat.

“Okay,” says Greg, and he sounds a little nervous now. He fumbles slightly with the keys to the front door, then holds it open for Mycroft to go through in front of him. Mycroft clenches his jaw and begins to climb the stairs, concentrating on keeping both his gait and his breathing entirely even.

Halfway up the stairs, just when he thinks he will need to pause for a moment, he feels Greg's fingers steal into his own, and take the handle of the bag. “Let me take that,” murmurs Greg, and then he slips past, getting to the door first to start unlocking it. Mycroft can pause and take a breath, unseen. He has arranged his features back to impassivity by the time he reaches the top of the stairs.

Greg has unlocked the door and is holding it open for him. He looks uncharacteristically serious, eyes wide and dark. Mycroft steps over the threshold, his stomach clenching with nerves. He doesn't know what’s going to come next. Everything seems strangely bright and loud. The soft thump as Greg drops his bag on the floor behind the door seems to echo, to travel up as shockwaves through the soles of his shoes.

Greg is pushing off his trainers, so Mycroft does that too, even though the ache is his leg is intensifying with every moment that passes. And then Greg's hand is on the small of his back, and his voice is low as he says, “come on, over here.” Mycroft lets himself be directed gently to the sofa, and sits down, fighting to keep the wince of pain out of his eyes.

Greg sits down next to him, right leg tucked up onto the cushions, and the fingers of his right hand are gently splayed around the back of Mycroft's neck, and perhaps nothing has ever felt so comforting and so arousing. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, and Greg gently rubs the back of his neck. “It really hurts, doesn't it?” he asks, softly.

And then Mycroft can't help it anymore. His eyes snap open and he says, “It is _unimportant_ _–_ Greg –” and Greg can obviously hear his desperation because his fingers tighten around the back of Mycroft's neck and there's a rough, tense growl in his throat as he leans in to kiss Mycroft, hard.

Mycroft can't stop himself biting at Greg's bottom lip, his need suddenly so consuming that it is violent. “Oh –” sighs Greg, and they are kissing so hard that it almost hurts, and Greg's hand has slid up into his hair now, cupping the back of his head.

Mycroft claws at Greg's arm, his t-shirt, not quite sure what he's doing, but just wanting _more, closer, now._ And he gets his wish, as Greg turns further towards him and then moans low in his throat, before swinging his leg over Mycroft's lap to straddle him. He settles himself there, wiggling slightly, and the kiss that up until now has been deadly serious suddenly feels light _–_ Mycroft can't help smiling madly against Greg's lips. Greg feels it happen and pulls away just a little, smiling too. Mycroft watches mesmerised as that smile breaks into his eyes, his whole face, becoming a huge grin. Mycroft takes a handful of Greg's t-shirt and pulls him closer again, chasing that grin to kiss it, to recapture Greg's lips and _–_ he runs his tongue along Greg's top lip and hears the sharp intake of breath, then a little moan _–_ Greg is pushing him back against the sofa and cradling his head with both hands, thumbs rubbing restlessly at the soft skin in front of Mycroft's ears, fingers scratching lightly through his hair _–_

“Please,” murmurs Mycroft, and he's just saying the word, over and over, he's not even sure why. He is rigidly hard inside his running tights, desperate and throbbing, and there's a delicate thread of shame running through him that perhaps Greg in his lap can feel this, his lack of self-control, his neediness, but he feels drunk, all he wants is more of Greg, more of his lips, more of his skin, _more, more, more._

“Mycroft – anything, anything, what do you want?” rasps Greg, and Mycroft slowly realises that he's responding to his own murmured and unending pleas. He feels a hot flush of embarrassment that he's been reduced to this state, but when he opens his eyes and sees Greg _–_ wrecked, flushed, red-lipped Greg, his eyes deep and desperate _–_ there's a dark thrill of satisfaction and pleasure, even through his disbelief.

“I don't know, I don't know,” he groans indistinctly, and it's true, he hasn't felt this unable to think, to decide, for years. His brain is just chasing sensation now. He pulls Greg in to kiss him again, drawing his tongue into his own mouth _–_ time spins out, and it's a shock when he feels Greg take his hand and tangle their fingers together, before slipping them under his t-shirt. But then he doesn't know how he has lived without this, without being allowed to run his fingertips, his palm, over the soft tight skin of Greg's chest, his stomach – his immediate favourite, the slight suggestion of a ladder of ribs at Greg's side – and when he tentatively smoothes his thumb around and then across Greg's nipples, the gasp and the “fuck _– Mycroft – please –”_ that gets him even harder, straining painfully against the fabric of his running tights.

Greg's leaning forward to kiss his neck now, nuzzling his nose into the place where neck and shoulder meet, and Mycroft pulls back a little, “all sweaty–”

“Mmm, don't care,” murmurs Greg, voice rough, and then he's licking Mycroft's skin, kisses and licks all the way up to his ear, pulling the earlobe between his lips and grazing it with his teeth –

Mycroft is suddenly very clear that he _will_ come in his pants like a teenager if Greg keeps doing that. He pulls back, still gently rubbing Greg's nipple with his thumb. Greg squirms closer on his lap and Mycroft flushes bright red, knowing that Greg _must_ be able to tell the state he's in by now.

Greg rests his forehead on Mycroft's and puts his own hand under the hem of Mycroft's t-shirt, resting softly over his hipbone, his stomach. “May I?” he murmurs.

Mycroft can't deny this man anything, now. He pushes against Greg's forehead with his own, a gentle headbutting nod that makes Greg smile radiantly. And then he's slipped his fingers under Mycroft's t-shirt, and they are playing along the waistband of his tights. “May I?” he asks again, and he sounds breathless, desperate, and Mycroft nods again.

Greg uses both hands to pull the waistband of Mycroft's tights down far enough that he can wrap his strong fingers around his hard, straining cock. Mycroft lets out an embarrassingly loud moan as Greg touches him; he catches his breath as he hears himself and presses his lips together. “God Mycroft,” rasps Greg into his ear. “I swear that's the hottest thing I've ever heard. Don't stop, please don't stop, I need to hear you –” he breaks off to run his tongue around the shell of Mycroft's ear, before scraping his earlobe with his teeth. Mycroft can't stop himself groaning again, but this time he doesn't try to hold it back, even though his face is hot with embarrassment. Greg's left hand is caressing his balls now. His right is just holding Mycroft, squeezing lightly occasionally. Perhaps he can feel how close to coming he is.

“Greg –” Mycroft can hear the desperation in his own voice. “I need – both of us – I want...may I?” his own hands are at the waistband of Greg's tights now too, and Greg and nods his assent with dark, hungry eyes.

When Mycroft wraps his hand around Greg's cock – thick and hot, heavy in his hand, they both moan out loud. “Fuck, Mycroft,” grits out Greg. “You don't know how much I've wanted this. You.”

Mycroft shakes his head a little in disbelief, but his body is in control now and he spreads his legs a little more, draws Greg forward, and pulls their cocks together. The first slide of steel velvet flesh makes them both gasp, and then Mycroft looks Greg deliberately in the eye and spits into his palm. Greg's pupils blow even wider and he bites his bottom lip. Mycroft sees it, the memory reflected in Greg's eyes, _just like being a desperate teenager again, can't wait to get off, spit in your hand and rub one out, as hard and fast as possible..._

Mycroft wraps his long pianist's fingers around them both, and Greg is saying “fuck, fuck, fuck,” over and over again as they begin to thrust together through the tight circle of Mycroft's grip, and then Greg is kissing him and swearing into the kisses, licking and biting at his lips _–_

Mycroft's stomach muscles are clenched, and they are both driving still harder now, sweating again, and Greg's hand has joined his, Greg's thumb is swiping over the heads of their cocks, mingling their precome _–_

_“Fuck,_ Mycroft, I'm going to – I can't –” moans Greg, and he buries his head in Mycroft's neck as he starts to come, biting down _hard,_ and that's everything that Mycroft could have needed, he's just a few moments behind. Mycroft can't stop saying Greg's name. They paint each other's t-shirts and tights with stripes of come. Greg uses some of it to slick the last few strokes; Mycroft’s orgasm seems to go on forever, his cock pushing out the last few drops of semen as the strongest spasms of all wrack him. At last he pulls his own hand away and grabs onto Greg's t-shirt, letting his head fall back on the sofa cushions. Greg still has his forehead on Mycroft's shoulder, from where he watched the show. Now he pulls his hand away too, and wipes it on his t-shirt.

“Bloody hell, Mycroft,” he says in a hoarse whisper. “That was. Fuck.” He snuggles closer onto Mycroft's lap, and moves his head into the crook of his neck, settling his lips warm and soft against Mycroft's collarbone. “Mmm,” he hums, and Mycroft can feel him smile.

Mycroft makes sure his hands are as clean as they can be under the circumstances, and rearranges their tights, so that they are both tucked away again. Then he wraps his left arm around Greg’s back, bringing his right hand up to gently stroke Greg's silver hair. He rests his cheek on the top of Greg's head and hums contentedly in return.

After a few minutes, Greg starts to gently kiss Mycroft's neck again. “Gorgeous. Thank you. You don't know much I needed that,” he whispers.

“I too,” murmurs Mycroft in return. He remembers wondering how it would feel to have Greg's hair against his face, and nuzzles his cheek against it. A sated sigh escapes him, and he feels Greg smile against his neck again. “We need showers,” Mycroft says, without any sense of urgency, or a plan for how to put this into action.

Greg makes an agreeing-dissenting noise in his throat. “One shower,” he corrects. “You're coming in with me.” He takes a breath and shifts a little, rearranging himself directly back into Mycroft's lap. His hands are light on Mycroft's shoulders as he leans in for a kiss.

Greg pulls back, and both their gazes scan over their clothes. “And we'll throw this stuff in the washing machine,” he adds, with a grin, looking at Mycroft's raised eyebrow.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi lovelies. Again, written on phone, reserve the right to do minor edits once I'm back on a screen that's not the size of a gnat's arse. Thank you so much for being here and reading ❤️

Suddenly Greg seems full of energy, leaping off Mycroft's lap and grabbing his hands, pulling him up.

"Hot shower might help your leg?" he asks.

Mycroft gives a wry half-shake of the head. "Unlikely, I'm afraid," he says quietly.

Greg grimaces and turns Mycroft around towards the bathroom, wrapping his arms around his waist and squeezing gently. He plants a kiss between Mycroft's shoulderblades and pushes gently forward. They walk to the bathroom together, Greg refusing to let go of Mycroft's waist. In the bathroom, Greg turns on the large shower then pauses. "Um, actually," he says awkwardly, then gestures to the loo. "I'll just –"

Mycroft suddenly realises what he's talking about. "Oh right – yes of course –" he crosses to the doorway. "I'll get us some water, if that's acceptable."

"Mm, please," smiles Greg, then he steps up close. "Goodbye kiss," he grins, planting a quick peck against Mycroft's lips. Mycroft can't help chasing and returning it. Greg hums happily into it, opening his lips to tease Mycroft's bottom lip with his teeth and tongue. They are lost in it for a few moments, then Mycroft plants his palms on Greg's shoulders and pushes him gently back. Greg grumbles slightly at him, but flashes him a grin as he shuts the door.

Mycroft takes a deep breath and crosses to the sink, the cupboard where he'd seen the glasses last time he was here. He runs the tap cold and pours two glasses. He's leaning back against the counter, drinking his own, when Greg emerges from the bathroom and plasters himself along Mycroft's body. Greg gives a huge contented sigh and steals Mycroft's glass.

Mycroft makes a small mock-indignant noise, but he can't stop himself smiling at how  _ good _ it feels, how warm and soft and hard and beautiful Greg's body feels against his own.

"After you," says Greg, nodding to the bathroom. Mycroft takes his chance to go inside and relieve himself. He avoids his reflection as he washes his hands; it's not going to be good, after all. His stomach squirms as he thinks about undressing with Greg, showering with Greg, lying in bed with Greg – laid out, to be looked at –

When he opens the door, Greg is smiling at him from the kitchen, eyes bright and sparkling. He crosses to Mycroft in a few steps and slips his hands under his t-shirt. "Shower time," he grins as he leans up for another kiss. "We're pretty sticky."

Mycroft grimaces slightly into the kiss, and Greg snorts a laugh in return. He pulls Mycroft's t-shirt slowly up, nudging his arms up as he goes. "I've wanted to undress you for so long, Mycroft Holmes," he murmurs.

Mycroft bites back a half-joking remark about hoping it's not a disappointment. "I must confess I have given some thought to undressing you too, Detective Inspector," is all he says. His hands are tugging insistently at Greg's t-shirt now too.

Finally they sort out the tangle of arms and clothing enough to press skin on skin. Mycroft can't help a deep sigh as he feels Greg's chest against his own. Greg's hands are smoothing down his back. He can feel his cock stirring again as he traces patterns across Greg's shoulders.

Greg pulls back a couple of inches, and looks into Mycroft's eyes before kissing him again, lips soft but not exactly gentle. Mycroft feels his thumbs hook into the waistband of his stained and wrecked running tights, and allows Greg to push them down; he returns the favour, and they take over responsibility for peeling the clinging garments off themselves.

Greg pulls the shower door open and steps into the steamy glass cubicle; he reaches out a hand to Mycroft and draws him in too. They stand together under the hot spray. Greg skates his palms up and down Mycroft's sides, kissing gently at the planes of his chest and shoulders, his neck and collarbones. Mycroft rests his hands on Greg's hipbones, allowing his thumbs to rub gently just below them. He hears Greg catch a breath out of rhythm and glances down, surprised to see that Greg's cock is thickening again.

Greg sends a laughing glance up at him, aware that he's been rumbled. Perhaps he sees the surprise in Mycroft's eyes. "You  _ still _ don't get what you do to me, do you?" he asks, quietly. Mycroft can hardly hear him over the sound of the shower.

"No," he says, honestly. He runs the fingers of his right hand through Greg's hair. "Maybe I'll learn." He smiles. "May I wash your hair?"

Greg gawps at him. "What?"

"Sorry..." returns Mycroft, suddenly unsure whether he should have said anything. He isn't sure what else he can say that won't sound pathetic, so he shuts his mouth in a tight line, staring at the grouting between the tiles.

"No, Mycroft, I didn't mean –" Greg's hands are on his face, forcing him to look him in the eye. "I didn't mean you can't – or that I don't want you to – it's just, you're  _ you, _ you know?"

Mycroft raises one eyebrow.

Greg sighs exasperatedly at himself. "You're so – self-contained, and – and important, I suppose. It's just a bit weird when the British Government asks if he can wash your hair."

Mycroft rolls his eyes. He  _ needs _ to stop Sherlock describing him like that to all and sundry. He raises one shoulder in the smallest of shrugs, and keeps eye contact with Greg. "I  _ like _ your hair," he murmurs.

"You do?" Greg grimaces a bit. "I used to be so self-conscious about it. Still am a bit, I suppose. At least I'm getting old enough for it now." He gives a rueful little laugh.

Mycroft runs his hand through it again. "I do," he says simply. "Long, like this. So, may I?"

"Of course," says Greg, turning around and passing the shampoo over his shoulder.

Mycroft pours plenty into his palm and begins to work it gently through Greg's hair, lathering thoroughly. After a while he starts to press and massage Greg's scalp, alternating with gentle tugs of his hair. He hears Greg catch a breath and flicks his gaze down – yes, he's getting hard again. His own cock fills and twitches sympathetically. He shifts a little closer, continuing to rub Greg's scalp with the fingertips of his left hand. He smoothes his shampoo-lathered right hand down over Greg's shoulder, chest, stomach – he teases at the soft trail of hair on Greg's lower belly for a few moments, before wrapping his long fingers around the base of his cock. He just holds him like that as he rubs his scalp, then tugs gently at a handful of his hair. Greg catches another breath, and Mycroft feels his cock thicken and jump in his hand. "You like that," he murmurs low into Greg's ear.

"Didn't know I did," gasps Greg. "But yes." He shifts his arse back against Mycroft, trapping his ever-hardening cock between their bodies. "You like it too." Mycroft can hear the smile in his voice.

"Mmm, of course," whispers Mycroft, kissing and licking at Greg's shoulder. Greg grinds back against him, making him catch his breath short. He tugs just a little harder on Greg's hair for that. Greg turns in his arms and pushes him back against the cool tile wall, on tiptoes to grind their hardening cocks together. Mycroft lets his hands play down Greg's back, digging his fingernails in, just a little. Greg gives a gasp and looks at him from under heavy eyelids.

"I'm going to wash this shampoo out," he says, as though only just maintaining his calm. "And then I want you in my bed." He plunges under the stream of water, and Mycroft takes the opportunity to use the shower gel (Boots’ own? It will probably bring him out in hives, but still better than sweat and dried semen) and spends an extra minute in the shower washing it off, as Greg climbs out. For a moment Mycroft remembers his towel, packed in his bag – he was going to get dressed, they were going to have lunch –  He doesn't think he could eat now. His stomach rolls with arousal and hormones, with the need to have Greg, more of him – always  _ more. _

Greg holds out a towel. Mycroft smiles at him, slightly haughtily. "You planned this," he says, mock-reproachfully.

"God yes," grins Greg. “I haven't been able to think about anything else since Tuesday morning. Well – for months really, but since last Friday, knowing that you might – and then that it would be a possibility after all –” he stops short, looking at Mycroft rather desperately. Mycroft swallows hard. There's a terrible vulnerability in Greg's eyes. He steps out onto the bathmat, taking the proffered towel and wrapping it around his hips. 

Mycroft reaches out his hand, and takes Greg's hesitantly. “I know,” he says quietly. “I understand. Entirely.” They look at one another for a few moments. Mycroft notices droplets of water making their way out of Greg's hair and tracking slowly down the soft skin of his neck. He wants to kiss them away.

“Bed,” says Greg, squeezing his hand.

Greg leads him into the bedroom. He draws Mycroft up close and kisses him, hands on the towel at his hips. The kiss starts gently, but Mycroft can't help slipping his tongue between Greg's lips. Greg makes a low noise in his throat and then he's walking Mycroft backwards to the bed. He pushes Mycroft down to sit on the edge, then up and back to lie spread across the duvet. He takes a long look at him then, and Mycroft's heart pounds as though he's only just finished their run. 

Greg licks his bottom lip and stretches out along Mycroft's side, placing a hand in the centre of his chest. “It's strange,” he murmurs quietly. “I want you so much and I'm ready – I mean, we can do stuff again right now – but I suppose because we just –” he presses his lips together in frustration and takes a deep breath. “It's not urgent, you know? I want to learn you all over.”

Mycroft turns his head to look directly at Greg. He sighs. “I...I do too. But –” he closes his eyes. “You should start with my left leg.” His lips are a tight line.

Greg frowns slightly at him. “You said it was an old wound. But it's obviously giving you a lot of gyp. What is it?” He sits up, facing Mycroft. His hand caresses the bottom of Mycroft's left foot.

Mycroft spreads his legs slightly, the towel shifting over him, falling slightly open. Greg traces his fingers over the top of Mycroft's foot, now. He leans over, and concentrates on what he's doing. Mycroft can feel the moment when he sees and feels the tail-end of the scar. It's not so bad, down at his ankle. The flesh is raised, but it's silvery. Greg follows it upwards, an ugly, lumpen line bisecting his lower leg. Greg's careful, questing fingers follow it to the knee. He looks up for permission as he plays his fingers over that, too, tracing the bumps of myriad small scars. Mycroft has thrown his left arm over his eyes, but now he bends his leg a little and reaches down with his right hand to take Greg's. He guides his fingers to the bottom tip of the next scar, running up the inside of his leg from knee to upper thigh. Gently, Greg follows it up, to the edge of the towel, then stops. Mycroft feels him lie down next to him again, then a firm but gentle hand is pulling his arm away from his face.

“Hey,” says Greg, when their eyes meet. “Stop hiding.”

Mycroft shrugs a little with the shoulder nearest to Greg, but says nothing. 

“How did it happen?” asks Greg. His hand is drawing patterns on Mycroft's chest.

Mycroft struggles to keep his voice impassive. “As I told you, I used to be involved in more...active work than I currently am. A mission did not go as planned. Under torture I did not prove cooperative, and their answer was to smash my leg irreparably, breaking every bone. My knee in particular was not… Unfortunately it took some time for my distress message to make it to the correct parties. The broken leg remained untreated for some time. When I was rescued the first surgeon was working under emergency conditions to save my life. Most of what was done then had to be undone and redone at great expense to the government once I was returned home. The knee was impossible to save. It is false. The rest of my leg is a dense construction of pins and plates,” he says wryly. “I did not have a huge amount of recovery time. It was one of Sherlock's worst periods. Another of the occasions on which he was sent to rehabilitation, complicated by the fact that I could not allow him to see me in that condition.”

Greg smoothes his hand slowly down Mycroft's chest, over his stomach. “So he doesn't know about this?”

“Not as far as I am aware,” returns Mycroft, “although who can really tell, with Sherlock?”

There's a short silence. “Hang on,” says Greg, thoughtfully. “He always says you don't like legwork.”

“Yes,” says Mycroft, with a slight twist to his lips. “That is one argument in favour of his knowing. Although it would be an unusually cruel joke, even for Sherlock. But given the childhood photographs –” he takes an exasperated breath and rolls his eyes.

Greg laughs, snuggling closer and throwing his right leg over Mycroft's stomach. “God, Mycroft,” he says, nuzzling his nose along his jawline. “You are gorgeous. Stop it.”

Mycroft makes a disbelieving noise in the back of his throat, and Greg bites down on his earlobe. “I said stop it,” he warns unclearly, through his teeth. He flicks the earlobe with his tongue, and Mycroft skates along the pleasure/pain boundary, hissing quietly at the sensation.

“So, it – it doesn't bother you?” asks Mycroft, tentatively.

“What?” asks Greg, sounding mystified. There's a short pause. “Are you on about your leg? God, of course it doesn't bother me. Why the bloody hell would it?”

Mycroft presses his lips together, looking up fixedly at the ceiling. “Well – it's not particularly attractive.”

“It's just a scar,” says Greg. “I've got two bullet wound scars, and one of them’s on the back of my thigh – it's not  _ actually  _ on my arse, but you can bet the team at the station made fun of me for getting shot in the arse for about two years.”

Mycroft can feel the relief fizzing in the pit of his stomach. He can't help laughing at Greg, and turns to look into those crinkled dark brown eyes.

“Were you honestly worried I'd say I couldn't look at you anymore after seeing the scar?” asks Greg, poking fun but with an edge of sadness to his tone. “Because if so, Mycroft Holmes, you're more of an idiot than I thought you were.”

Mycroft does not deign to answer. Instead he pushes his face into Greg's damp hair and inhales, then leaves a kiss behind. Greg drops kisses along his jaw, then finds his mouth with a pleased hum of approval. Their tongues slide together in a lazy exchange, when – “oh my god, that's why all the umbrellas, isn't it?” blurts out Greg.

Mycroft nods, staring at the ceiling again. “I dislike a stick,” he says, dryly.

Greg makes a little choking  _ oh  _ noise in the back of his throat, and tightens his grip on Mycroft with both arms and the leg he still has thrown over him. They lie still and quiet for a few minutes.

“Why running?” asks Greg, at length, and now he sounds concerned. “Surely that can't be OK. It's obviously hurting you.”

Mycroft runs his right hand through Greg's hair. “It is a challenge. And good exercise.”

“Yeah, but…” says Greg, dubiously. “Why not swimming or something low-impact? I'm pretty sure your building must have a pool.”

Mycroft is quiet for a minute, until Greg lifts his head to look directly at him, and pokes him none-too-gently in the side. “Yes, Greg, it does have a pool,” says Mycroft exasperatedly.

“Well then. We should go swimming together.”

Mycroft grimaces, while Greg stares at him.

“Oh don't tell me this is some sort of nudity thing. Because frankly I will take every opportunity to see you in swimming trunks I can get,” smirks Greg. His thumb flicks casually over Mycroft's nipple. “And you know what you can get away with in private pools – heavy petting.”

Mycroft snorts. “You're showing your age,” he laughs. Greg shoves him gently, biting his shoulder. “Anyway, I don't exactly feel like putting on a show for my security detail,” says Mycroft, rolling his eyes.

“Oh well,” sighs Greg theatrically. “Changing rooms it is then.” Mycroft's just opening his mouth to respond when Greg puts his lips to his ear. “I'd love to see how long you can keep quiet in a changing cubicle while I rim you,” he says, voice low.

Mycroft's heart skips a beat, his eyebrows shoot up and he chokes slightly on air. Greg's face goes from smug to panicked quickly.

“God – sorry Mycroft – was that way too much? I'm sorry –”

Mycroft covers Greg's hand on his chest with his own, and squeezes. “Greg,” he says gravely, “stop worrying. I'm not appalled, or particularly inexperienced. As it happens, however…” his eyes flick to Greg's then back to the ceiling “...that is one thing I haven't done. My – the relationship I told you about – he wasn't interested in that particular act, in either direction. And it has not appealed to me with any of the –” he gestures vaguely in the air.

“Encounters?” asks Greg.

“Yes,” says Mycroft, shooting him a drily amused glance.

“Oh Mycroft,” grins Greg. “Just let me know if and when you want to try it.” He leans over to kiss Mycroft, dipping his tongue between his lips and biting gently.

Mycroft pulls back slightly. “Could I…” he tails off and presses his lips together frustratedly. Greg makes a slight interrogatory noise and nuzzles his ear. “Do you prefer…”

Greg looks at him, then his face clears. “Oh! Total switch. I bottomed for one guy before I got married, but I've topped with a couple of one-nighters and bottomed with another. Don't care. Whatever the mood is.”

Mycroft nods. “I too am happy to be versatile.”

Greg's eyebrows lift. “Really? God, I had you down as a stone-cold top.” He grins and kisses Mycroft again. “Especially after you pulled my hair in the shower.”

“Yes, I –” Mycroft hesitates. “Was that...?”

Greg’s voice is rough as he hums an  _ mmmm _ of approval into Mycroft's mouth. “Please,” he rasps.

“I –” says Mycroft, and stops, as though he can't quite believe he's about to speak. “In my few  _ encounters _ recently – and by  _ recently _ you should understand I mean infrequently in the last few years – I have found it politic to play the part of the  _ stone-cold top,  _ as you so eloquently put it.” Greg grins at him, and he returns a small smile. “With you I will not always wish to do that.”

“No,” murmurs Greg, running his hand along Mycroft's jawline. “We'll decide as we go then.” He places a kiss right next to Mycroft's mouth, then more all over his face, everywhere but on the lips. Eventually Mycroft loses patience and flips them over, pinning Greg down with his hands above his head. Their bodies are tight against one another and they are both achingly hard again.

Greg grins. “This isn't going to sell my staying power particularly well after earlier, but would you believe I actually wanked this morning too?”

Mycroft gives a little smile and looks directly into his eyes. “As did I,” he mumbles.

“God, we're both like bloody teenagers,” says Greg. “I promise I can actually go a bit longer than that normally.”

Mycroft snorts a little as he licks Greg's neck, kissing gently around his Adam's apple. “I still need to see where you got shot in the arse,” he smiles and loosens Greg's towel.

“Oh for God's sake,” groans Greg long-sufferingly. “It wasn't  _ actually–”  _ he's cut off by Mycroft flipping him roughly over onto his front and kissing slowly down his spine, interspersing a few bites to the meat of Greg's spectacular arse.

“Mmm,” groans Mycroft, between kisses. “I'm taking you to my tailor. Your current suits do not do this justice.” He kisses and bites a few more times as Greg laughs, partly at the praise, partly at the ticklish sensation.

“I'm not going the full Sherlock with suits three sizes too small,” says Greg, but he's cut off by a stinging slap across his arsecheek.

“Ugh, don't say his name when I'm –” Mycroft waves his hand in the air.

“Hard?” grins Greg. “Naked? Kissing my arse?”

“Any and all of the above,” says Mycroft, biting a little harder, and sucking gently to bring the blood to the surface.

Greg groans. “And you can do that anytime you like,” he adds, quietly.

“Mark you?” asks Mycroft, his voice dark. “Or spank you?”

Greg takes a hurried, deep breath in. “Both. Either. Fuck, Mycroft, I'm so hard I can barely think.”

Mycroft crawls up Greg's back until he can drop kisses onto his shoulders. His cock is nestled along the cleft of Greg's arse through his towel. Greg makes a low whining noise. “Tell me what you want,” whispers Mycroft.

“I can't,” mumbles Greg, and he sounds quite wrecked. “My head's full of everything I want to do with you and I want everything now but I can't decide. What do you want?”

Mycroft nips his earlobe and kisses down the side of his neck. It's there in his head with absolute clarity. “I want to suck you off with my fingers inside you,” he says, directly. 

Greg goes still and straight underneath him, then actually ruts against the duvet a couple of times. He groans and rolls over underneath Mycroft. “Please,” he says, his eyelids heavy. “Yes please.”

Greg obviously sleeps on the right. Mycroft leans over and finds the expected bottle of lube in the drawer of the bedside table, places it next to them on the bed. Then he straddles Greg's hips and pulls off his own towel. They thrust together a few times, moaning quietly. 

Mycroft is reaching for the lube when Greg grabs his hand and brings it to the level of his lips. He looks Mycroft right in the eye. “Let me – first, please –” he gives a kittenish lick to the pads of Mycroft's first three fingers. “Your fingers, Mycroft, your fucking fingers – I've woken up coming before, dreaming about them wrapped around me.” Greedily he licks again and starts to suck them into his mouth. Mycroft is so hard that it's difficult not to touch himself, just for relief. 

“Greg,” he murmurs, and kisses down the other man's stomach, leaving his fingers to the soft, laving tongue exploring them so thoroughly. He reaches for a pillow and slides it under Greg's hips, then bends to place kisses all around Greg's cock. Greg hisses and bites down gently on his fingers as Mycroft licks his balls, savouring the mild post-shower musk of Greg's natural smell. 

Greg opens his mouth and gasps out a “please” that sounds garbled in its desperation. And at last, Mycroft wraps his left hand around the base of Greg's cock, and takes the head in his mouth. Although he's received, he hasn't actually sucked anyone off for – fuck, it must be at least fifteen years – and his cock throbs as he finally feels the weight of Greg on his tongue, the hot burst of salty precome. He groans around it, and Greg squirms and runs his hands frantically through his own hair. Mycroft finds his fingers removed from Greg's mouth, and glances up to see the policeman fumbling with the lube bottle. He catches his eye, and Greg gives an urgent moan.

“ _ Fucking hell,  _ Mycroft, if you're going to finger me you'd better do it soon because I could come right now,” says Greg, his voice tight. “I can't look at you, Christing fucking hell on a fucking bike,” he groans, finally getting the lube bottle open and squeezing a generous amount onto Mycroft's fingers. “Fuck,” he adds succinctly as he lets his head fall back onto the mattress. “I can feel you fucking smirking around my cock and why is it fucking turning me on so much?”

“My my, Detective Inspector,” says Mycroft silkily as he warms the lube between his fingers. “Such filthy language from a well-respected officer of the law.” He rubs Greg's perineum, and moves gently lower. 

Greg's breathing is laboured and he's pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Oh god,” he mutters as Mycroft starts to stroke lube around his tight entrance.

“You know,” continues Mycroft as he begins to gently work one slick finger inside Greg, “I'm going to make you look at me in the end. Once my fingers are stroking your prostate and your thick cock is in my mouth, I'll stop and I won't carry on until you watch me make you come.”

Greg squirms, pushing down against his finger. “That's not going to happen unless you stop fucking talking Mycroft. At this rate I'm just going to come in your face before you've even found my –  _ ohhh my g _ –”

The rest of the sentence is cut off as Mycroft ghosts the barest pressure of his fingertip over Greg's prostate, simultaneously swallowing down the head of his cock and pulling him off into his mouth with long, smooth strokes of his left hand.

For a few minutes Mycroft finds his rhythm and Greg makes incoherent noises. Then, “fuck, Mycroft, it's too much, I'm going to –” 

Mycroft pulls his finger slowly out, and eases up the strokes of his left hand, although he keeps the head of Greg's cock in his mouth, giving conversational little licks to his frenulum. Greg groans with frustration and gasps at every lick.

Mycroft lines up two fingers at Greg's entrance and strokes them gently over it. “Is this okay?” he asks.

“Fuck, yes, of course,” whines Greg. “Please.”

Mycroft hums his appreciation for the begging into the skin of Greg's cock. Greg whines. Mycroft's two fingers press relentlessly inside, and he'd expected to need to revive Greg's erection a bit, but Greg just moans and bears down. His cock throbs on Mycroft's tongue. Mycroft himself is desperately hard. He takes his left hand off Greg's cock to give a few strokes to his own.

“Are you wanking?” asks Greg, and his voice is low and tight.

“Mmm,” Mycroft hums his assent, knowing that Greg can feel it as vibrations.

“Fuck,” groans Greg, and he sounds almost resigned. “I'm going to come Mycroft – I'm going to  _ ohhh  _ –” Mycroft's fingers find their target again, just the barest recurring pressure winding Greg tighter with every pass. Mycroft can feel it; it’s a matter of seconds now. He redoubles his sucking and licking to the head of Greg's cock, and takes his hand off his own cock to jerk Greg into his mouth again. “Oh Mycroft, Mycroft, fuck –” chants Greg, and there it is, his orgasm breaks over him from the very centre, clenching and fluttering around Mycroft's fingers. Mycroft takes shot after shot of bitter come on his tongue, waiting for it all before swallowing it down and gently, slowly, withdrawing his fingers from Greg.

Mycroft's thighs are shaking with how badly he needs to get off. He was close. He could have rutted against the duvet, but Greg was his first priority. Mycroft moves up to hover over Greg, not really expecting to find him ready to reciprocate. 

His eyes are wide and bright, and he pulls Mycroft down, kissing him deeply and hard. “That was fucking – incredible – I can't –” he licks into Mycroft's mouth, tasting, needy. “You were – I wanted to feel you come – you were wanking as you sucked me – Christ, Mycroft,” he says, and he sounds surprised by his own need. “Can I watch you make yourself come? Touch you while you do?”

Mycroft stares at him, eyes wide. He has often thought about watching Greg make himself come, and to find his own fantasy mirrored is –

He settles on his knees and heels, pulling Greg up to kneel in front of him. Greg starts to kiss him, hard, then places kisses all the way down his neck. The fingers of his right hand tangle with Mycroft's, and guide his hand to his own aching cock. Greg's hand slides down to caress Mycroft's balls. Mycroft hears a noise deep in Greg's throat, and then Greg's rearranging himself on the bed, between Mycroft's legs. Mycroft is stroking himself tight and hard now, the pressure a blessed relief. Greg watches from up close, then pulls Mycroft's hand into his own. He looks as though he wants to suck Mycroft's fingers again, and Mycroft slightly pulls his hand away – “it’s alright, I know I can't,” murmurs Greg. He squeezes lube into Mycroft's palm, then dips his head down again.

Mycroft is far gone. He's still warming up the lube when Greg starts to lick his balls, and he can't help moaning. His right hand flies back to his cock, and his left buries itself in Greg's hair. He loosens his grip on the silver strands after a moment, realising he may seem pushy, and Greg makes a growling sort of noise and pushes his head up into Mycroft's hand. He takes the hint, tightening his hand again, stroking his long fingers over Greg's scalp as his thumb gently caresses his cheekbone.

_ Fuck,  _ but Greg's tongue on his balls is incredible. The sensation builds and builds, and his strokes to his cock are light and fast now. He's so close, everything feels wound up to a point, but he's not quite falling over the edge –

Greg shifts a little, moving lower. He licks and starts to suck at Mycroft's perineum, still caressing his balls. He pulls away for a moment just to watch, eyes dark and deep. “You look fucking incredible,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Come for me.” And then he dips down again and sucks one of Mycroft's balls right into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it, pressing firmly on his perineum with his thumb. Mycroft can't even distinguish the sensations anymore. He feels blessed relief and pleasure start to rush over him, and then he's shaking all over, shooting come onto his own chest and stomach. He knows he's moaning Greg's name; he dimly hears Greg say something but can't process it. Eventually he is completely wrung out and he pulls his hand away from himself. Greg's at his side, hands caring, helping him to lie down.

They lie quiet for a few minutes, and Mycroft feels Greg wiping his chest and stomach with something. Greg kisses his ear and murmurs, “you looked unbelievable Mycroft. Fucking amazing. I love watching you.”

Mycroft eventually fights his eyes open and looks wonderingly at Greg. “You – that was.” He gets stuck and shakes his head slightly. Greg grins and kisses him on the lips.

“I can't wait to go down on you Mycroft. And fucking  _ hell  _ I can't wait to rim you. I nearly tried it just now but thought maybe it wasn't exactly the time to get creative.” He smiles and nibbles Mycroft's bottom lip. “But when I'm sucking you off I want you to pull my hair, hold my head…” he trails off into a pleased  _ hmm _ noise.

They lie together, kissing lazily for a few minutes, until Mycroft mutters, “should shower again. Or at least wash my hands.”

“Mmm, I know,” sighs Greg, giving him an extra kiss. “And I'm going to get lunch on.” He smiles shyly at Mycroft. “I actually prepared a lot of it this morning. Woke up at five because I was so nervous.”

Mycroft pulls him in for one more kiss, then sits slowly up. “I was too, you know,” he says softly. “But I would suggest that our date is successful so far.” He smirks over his shoulder at Greg as he heads to the bathroom.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I've had a truly crap week and this chapter is really self-indulgent but I hope you like it anyway. I honestly love you guys. Thank you for being here ❤️

Mycroft, wrapped in his towel again, detours to pick up his bag and heads into the bathroom. Door locked behind him, he goes to the loo again, then steps in front of the mirror. This time he looks himself in the eye, scanning his face. He looks thoroughly debauched. His hair is a mess, his lips red and swollen, eyes bright and sparkling. He has stubble burn all around his mouth and chin, and there are several visible bite marks (though thankfully not full lovebites) on his neck. He traces them with one long finger. They will fade quickly – or so he hopes. He smirks, thinking about the Prime Minister's expression if he turned up with a neck covered in hickies.

He is surprised to find himself grinning at the mirror as he looks at the spectacle of a clearly well-fucked Mycroft Holmes. Christ. He aches as he thinks about Greg touching him, sliding inside him. He watches his own eyebrows rise slightly in reflection. That hasn’t been on the cards with anyone in a long time.

He very thoroughly cleanses his hands, and decides that another quick shower would be a good idea. Under the hot water his skin feels alive, tingling with the aftermath of Greg's touch.

He washes thoroughly and towels off again, then arranges his hair, sprays on deodorant and pulls on the soft tweed suit trousers and white shirt he'd brought with him. He fixes in his cufflinks and brushes his teeth. He puts everything back in his bag and hangs the towel neatly over the rail.

In the kitchen, Greg is chopping up a head of broccoli. He’s wearing jeans and a dark purple plaid shirt. He looks round as Mycroft emerges, and his smile is wide and soft, crinkling the corners of his eyes. Mycroft pads up behind him, standing close but not touching. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

“Everything's already in the oven, thank you,” says Greg, leaning back into him. Mycroft feels his satisfied sigh as their bodies slot together. “You can hug me while I do stuff though.”

“That doesn't sound very productive,” murmurs Mycroft, wrapping his arms around Greg's stomach and chest. This permission to touch, to hold, so freely given, makes him catch his breath silently. 

“Oh sorry, I forgot you'd need more to occupy your enormous brain,” smirks Greg. “You can kiss me as well then.”

Mycroft sighs, and kisses Greg's left cheekbone, moving down to nuzzle and then lick his earlobe and along his jaw. He pushes forward closer to Greg's mouth, and reaches his hand up to tip Greg's head towards him. Their lips meet only briefly before Greg pushes him off. "Oh bloody hell, you've done your teeth. And you smell all good from your shower. I'm going to sort myself out." 

Mycroft grumbles as Greg detaches himself from his embrace, but takes over chopping the broccoli. By the time Greg comes back there's a pile of evenly-sized greens. Mycroft's pouring another couple of glasses of water.

Greg holds him by the waist and pulls Mycroft back against him. “You know you  _ do  _ have a very good tailor,” he says, letting his right hand wander down to caress Mycroft's hip and the side of his buttock. He kisses Mycroft's shoulderblade. “Or maybe just a very good tail.” Mycroft can feel him grin. He suppresses his own pleased smile. “Perhaps I  _ should  _ go and see him.”

Mycroft puts down his glass of water and turns in Greg's arms. “It was probably a terrible idea,” he says, sliding his hands around Greg's waist. “The world will be able to see what a wonderful behind you have, and I will have competition.”

Greg laughs as he rests his head on Mycroft's chest, pushing Mycroft back against the edge of the counter. “It's OK. You can defend my honour. In my daydreams your umbrella is actually a swordstick and you fight off all other suitors with it.”

Mycroft laughs quietly and buries his lips in Greg's hair. “I am afraid not. It is bulletproof though.”

Greg looks up at him, face open and curious. Only after several seconds does his expression crack into a disbelieving grin. “You have the world's best poker face,” he says, kissing Mycroft's chin.

“Politician,” returns Mycroft sardonically. His tone turns musing. “I used to be able to fence, before the leg. It requires so much dexterity and quick movement.”

Greg growls exasperatedly, resting his chin on Mycroft's chest. “Why are you so ridiculously fucking sexy, Mycroft Holmes?” he grumbles.

“Well,” says Mycroft slowly, as though giving it real thought, “I suspect it may have something to do with you finding a lot of strange things oddly attractive.” He makes a very undignified noise as Greg pokes him in the ribs.

“I have a question,” says Greg, his face mock-serious.

“Yes?” asks Mycroft cautiously, kissing Greg's ear.

“Did you play an instrument of some kind when you were little? Or...do you still?” he opens his eyes innocently wide and looks up at Mycroft. “Only…”

Mycroft’s cheeks flush, ever so slightly. “Piano,” he says.

Greg brings Mycroft's hand to his lips and starts to kiss the tip of each finger. “Well.” He gives a little lick to the pad of Mycroft's thumb. “I thank the piano, and the  _ very _ beautiful fingers which play it.” His grin is positively filthy.

Mycroft presses his thumb just a little deeper past Greg's bottom lip. Greg closes his lips and swirls his tongue around it. Mycroft's eyes narrow a bit as he feels a heady rush of arousal.

Greg regretfully lets go of Mycroft's thumb, and returns his hand to its place on his waist. “Don't start all that again,” he grins, looking up at Mycroft. “Did you actually have breakfast? I didn't. Don't know how I even managed that second go.” He snorts at the indignant look on Mycroft's face.

Mycroft narrows his eyes. “If anyone is starting things here…”

“Well you shouldn't be all – like that,” says Greg, long-sufferingly, waving a hand vaguely at Mycroft. “It's very distracting.”

Mycroft looks at him perplexedly. The idea of being  _ distracting,  _ of Greg finding him difficult to resist, is...his brain cannot marry it with his own understood truths.

Greg makes a growling noise, and kisses him with a little bite to the bottom lip. Mycroft realises that Greg has understood his doubting expression. To be  _ read _ in this way feels inexpressibly odd. “You’re a right numbskull, Mycroft Holmes,” whispers Greg, pushing their foreheads together.

Mycroft can only blink.

“Right,” says Greg, more composedly. “You go and put the telly on, I’m going to actually get lunch ready this time.”

Mycroft pads over to the sofa, and settles in to channel-hop, in search of a detective programme of acceptable ridiculousness for Greg. Eventually he settles on ITV3, which is playing some programme he’s never heard of, but promises a Lewis episode before too long.

Greg pads over with two glasses of red wine, and holds one out to Mycroft. They touch glasses and each take a sip. “This is –” says Mycroft.

“I asked Anthea,” Greg cuts him off. “I’m sorry, I’ll stop doing that.” He folds himself into Mycroft’s lap on the sofa. “God, I’m going to be drunk in about a minute, wine before any food today is a terrible idea.”

Mycroft takes Greg’s glass and leans forward to put both down on the coffee table. He slips his arms around Greg’s waist as he settles back. His only wish is to bury his nose in Greg’s skin, to inhale and kiss. “At least we did not stain your sofa, earlier,” he murmurs.

Greg huffs a laugh. “Not for want of trying. God, I need to put those running clothes in the washing machine,” he adds, making as if to get up.

Mycroft holds him tighter and easily stops him leaving. “No,” is all he says.

“The lunch – the broccoli’s boiling –”

“Unimportant,” returns Mycroft, definitely.

Greg looks at him, his brown eyes wide and searching. “’M’not even hungry anyway,” he sighs. “All I want is you. ’M just not hungry.”

“I know.” Mycroft can’t help it. He leans in and they are kissing again, Greg’s lips pliant beneath his own, the complex velvet taste of red wine between them. 

Eventually Mycroft pushes Greg gently back. He’s being selfish, and he knows it. Greg has cooked a meal for him. He smoothes a thumb fondly along Greg’s cheekbone and stands up.

In the kitchen, he takes the broccoli off the hob and drains it. After a moment, Greg joins him and starts getting everything out of the oven. They each take a plate of food and return to the sofa, sitting as close as possible, Greg’s back resting down Mycroft’s side.

Mycroft picks at his lunch. It’s delicious, but his stomach feels hot, tight and entirely uninterested in food. He doesn’t even particularly want the wine. All he wants is to stretch out and feel Greg’s skin against his own.

Mycroft puts his plate down on the coffee table. Greg looks at him worriedly.

“It is delicious,” says Mycroft quickly. “I am simply not…” he gestures.

“I know,” says Greg. He puts his own plate decidedly down on the table and stands up, holding out his hand. “I don’t want any of this. Come back to bed with me?”

Mycroft blinks, slowly. It is possible that Greg is a mindreader. The sensation is an odd one. It feels nothing like being deduced by Sherlock. His heart turns over in his chest, a long, lazy  _ thump. _

He turns off the television and takes Greg’s hand. They walk to the bedroom with their fingers tangled together.

Next to the bed, Greg slips his arms around Mycroft’s waist and kisses his neck. “I don’t think sex is on the cards,” he mumbles, laughing. “I might have reached my limit for one day, nowadays.”

“Yes,” says Mycroft into Greg’s shoulder. “I –” he pauses.  _ I just need your skin,  _ his brain repeats incessantly.  _ I want. I need. _

Greg pulls back and kisses him, hands on either side of his face. “Can we –”

Mycroft nods emphatically, and Greg is undoing his shirt buttons now, fingers clumsy with haste. Mycroft removes his own cufflinks, and Greg takes them to put on the bedside table, with a kiss to the inside of Mycroft’s wrist. It makes him shiver.

Greg turns him round to gently remove his shirt, and hangs it carefully from the hook on the back of the door. Mycroft starts to work on Greg’s shirt buttons the moment he turns back, as Greg begins fumbling with Mycroft’s flies.

Finally, they are both naked again, and Mycroft tugs Greg backwards into bed. It feels odd, to invite Greg into his own bed in this way, but the bone-deep need to match skin to skin is making him desperate, setting his teeth on edge.

Finally, they are together in the bed. Mycroft tugs at Greg, pulling him on top. “Really? Like this?” murmurs Greg, finally allowing his full weight to fall on Mycroft, their bodies pressing together from chest to toe. “Aren’t I too heavy?”

Mycroft feels as though he is choking with the need to be  _ closer.  _ This is perfect, this is exactly what he needs but it’s not close enough.

It will have to do.

He shakes his head emphatically against Greg’s neck, slipping his arms around the other man’s waist to pull him closer still. “No,” he whispers, but the sound is lost under the pressure of Greg’s weight on top of him, surrounding him.

Greg’s elbows are braced around Mycroft’s shoulders, and his hands stroke Mycroft’s neck, his hair. Mycroft can feel that he is being watched, but he keeps his eyes closed, his face relaxed. Eventually, Greg kisses him softly on the lips and moves slightly, so he’s plastered along Mycroft’s side and their legs are tangled together, but he’s no longer right on top of him. Mycroft makes a grumbling noise.

“You have to breathe, Myc! I’m too heavy.”

Mycroft’s eyes fly open, and he turns his head to look at Greg. Greg widens his eyes in surprise at the sudden movement. “What?”

_ “Myc,”  _ hisses Mycroft, and Greg laughs at the accusatory tone. His expression fades to one of amused guilt.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, but I can’t help it. I keep nicknaming you in my head. Seems like everyone’s already ruined all the options though, unless I start calling you Crofty or something.”

Mycroft gives an involuntary shudder. “That makes me sound like a Northern footballer,” he snaps.

“Yeah, it doesn’t suit you,” grins Greg. “But you keep dismissing all the options.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “No-one actually  _ needs  _ to shorten my name.”

“I do.”

“Why?”

“Shows how much I like you.”

“It seems an unreliable indicator.”

“Shorter to say during sex.”

“I would rather render you incoherent.”

Greg lets out a half-amused, half-aroused breath.  _ “Mycroft,  _ God, I had no idea you’d be so –” Mycroft pulls back, just a little, to search Greg’s face, and Greg puts a staying hand on his chest. “You make me want you so much,” he adds, leaning in for a kiss.

Mycroft’s brain is sluggish with all the sensory input from Greg’s skin against his own, the feeling of Greg’s fingertips on his chest, Greg’s leg tangled between his, the sole of Greg’s foot against the skin of his ankle. He feels absorbed into the kiss. He feels as though he is floating.

“I could just call you pet names instead,” says Greg, and Mycroft can hear the laughter in his voice. He snaps his eyes open to watch Greg’s cheeky grin develop.  _ “Sweetheart,”  _ adds Greg.

Mycroft keeps his face impassive.

“Darling,” grins Greg. Mycroft grimaces, and Greg plants a kiss on his shoulder. “Honey. Ooh, you’ll like this one –  _ poppet.”  _ He snorts with laughter as Mycroft reaches out to poke him in the stomach. “Stop it! Babe? No, OK – gorgeous. I like gorgeous.” He smiles down into Mycroft’s eyes, and steals another kiss. “Eventually you’ll have to give in and let me nickname you.”

Mycroft hums an  _ mmm _ and turns on his side to nuzzle further into the crook of Greg’s neck, alternating licks and little bites. His skin is addictive, suddenly as necessary to him as oxygen.

None of this makes sense, and terror is roiling in Mycroft’s stomach alongside the sensation of floating. It feels like tightrope-walking across a yawning abyss. But it doesn’t really matter, as long as he can keep touching, licking, biting at Greg’s golden skin.

Greg’s fingers run through his hair and caress his side. Every touch feels unbearably luxurious. “Where’s the other bullet wound?” murmurs Mycroft.

“Oh, it was on my arm,” says Greg, tipping his upper right arm towards Mycroft’s curious gaze. “Just a graze really, but seemed to take forever to heal. Writing arm, so it being in a sling was a nightmare.”

Mycroft kisses the still-visible scar. It’s old, faded dark-purple. He lets his forehead rest on Greg’s arm, eyes closed. He only flutters them open when he feels Greg’s thumb gently smoothing down his cheekbone.

“Hey,” murmurs Greg.

Mycroft gives a vaguely interrogatory  _ mmm?  _ and begins to kiss down Greg’s arm again.

“You okay?”

Mycroft nods, taking Greg’s hand to place a kiss in the palm. He glances briefly up at Greg’s face through his eyelashes, but finds his expression unreadable.

“Mycroft…” Greg takes a breath. “Can you stay here tonight please?” Mycroft looks up and finds Greg’s brown eyes terribly open and vulnerable. “I know probably not because I’m sure you’ve got to go in really early and you’ll have to get ready and everything but.” He takes another deep breath. “Maybe you could leave early to get back to yours or something. I’d just –” he shrugs, looking fixedly at Mycroft’s shoulder.

Mycroft’s heart is beating unwarrantably hard. He presses his lips together to suppress what he fears might be a strange disbelieving laugh. “That would be – yes. Certainly,” he says, as calmly as he can manage. “Although I am sure you are aware that it is currently only three in the afternoon.”

Greg’s grin glows. “Ahh, I don’t care,” he laughs. “Staying in bed with you is all I want for the rest of the day, anyway.”

Mycroft lets himself fall back onto the pillow, and stares up at the ceiling. It’s white, like the rest of the walls in the flat. He feels Greg’s fingers winding into his own.

“Stop worrying about work,” says Greg. “The country won’t collapse if you take one Sunday off.”

Mycroft tips his head on the pillow to look sharply at Greg. “How do you do that,  _ Detective Inspector?”  _ he asks. “I have been told by numerous people that I have one of the more inscrutable faces they have had the displeasure to encounter.”

Greg shoots him an amused glance, shrugs lazily. “Practice, I suppose,” he says.

“Hardly –”

Greg shushes him with a laugh. “Mycroft, I’ve spent years watching you bail Sherlock literally and figuratively out of any and all bloody stupid situations. When you’re watching him, you’re not so guarded, you let your thoughts show. At least, you do when you think he’s too preoccupied or too high to notice. And I –” he hesitates, flicks his gaze to Mycroft’s eyes and away again. “I was usually watching  _ you.” _

Mycroft feels a wave of a kind of restless heat sweep over him slowly, from toes to pink-tinged cheeks. He pulls Greg closer by their joined hands and loses himself in the slow, sweet slide of another kiss.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep...so...sorry to people who aren't so keen on the porn, because, um.
> 
> Love you guys ❤️

**[04:27] The car is taking me back to get ready before the day begins. I hope you sleep well. Thank you for an extraordinary date. MH**

[06:23] Sorry I slept through you leaving! Next time you’ll have to bring work clothes so you can stay over properly. I’ll make you breakfast. G

**[06:26] That is a kind invitation. MH**

[06:27] Just selfish. I’m thinking about sharing my shower with you again. I also suspect it’d be impossible to watch you putting your suit on without taking it off you again. G

**[06:28] Time-consuming. MH**

[06:29] Yup. But worth being a bit late for. G

**[06:30] I am never late for work. MH**

[06:31] Things can change. What time do you finish work tonight? G

**[06:32] I have a very late conference call with Beijing, which is unlikely to be complete until after midnight. MH**

[06:33] Oh bloody hell. Do you have a break earlier in the evening? G

**[06:36] It appears I have an hour free at 8pm. MH**

[06:37] I could bring dinner to your office? Sushi again, if you want? G

**[06:39] I ought to use the time to prepare for tomorrow’s meetings. MH**

[06:40] Is that a no? G

**[06:45] No. MH**

[06:46] Good :) I don’t even have to bring dinner if you don’t want. I just want to hug you again. G

[06:46] And kiss you. G

[06:46] Also my hands might wander a bit. But I’ll go away again as soon as you need to get on. G

**[06:48] That sounds perfectly acceptable. MH**

[06:49] Good. See you later. Have a good day! G

*

Mycroft leans one hand on the glass of his sweeping picture window and watches the sun falling over the London skyline. He tamps down frustration as he shifts the phone in his other hand, the mobile warm and uncomfortable against his ear.

“I do understand, Minister, but you appreciate I am sure that the situation in the region is a delicate one. I have further talks planned later this evening, but your cooperation will be vital in bringing to a close a situation which has persisted for far too long.”

He listens to another burst of bluster at the other end of the line. He can tell he has prevailed, however; this is merely a release of useless emotion before the inevitable capitulation. He presses his lips together, then fixes his gaze on the slowly-revolving London Eye, lit up against the pink- and yellow-streaked sky. The glass is cool and calming beneath his fingertips.

He does not turn around as he hears the door open and close behind him; he needs to pay attention, and seeing Greg is hardly going to aid that. His chest feels tight and full at the thought of being close to him again. The previous afternoon and evening had been so _comfortable._ They had hardly left the bed. Eventually Greg’s stomach had grumbled so loudly he’d gone to get food, returning with a tray of cheese, biscuits and grapes, which they’d consumed wrapped up in one another, never not touching. And they had talked; inconsequential, light, a house of cards of words and teasing and laughter which built together to a greater whole, to an understanding and sympathy which – if he allowed himself to think about it – would take Mycroft’s breath away with its astounding intimacy.

He does not think about it. He stifles an impatient sigh as he waits for the Minister to conclude his comments.

Greg’s arms are warm and strong around his waist. He rests his cheek on Mycroft’s back and squeezes him around the middle, gently. Mycroft feels the kiss placed to his shoulderblade through his shirt. He is briefly lost for an answer to the Minister.

“Very well, thank you indeed for your input, Minister. I regret I must end our conversation as another meeting calls, but please be assured that my team and I will update you tomorrow following tonight’s negotiations.” He hardly hears the reply. “Thank you. Thank you, good evening,” he says smoothly, and hangs up. He checks that the call has actually ended, then pockets the mobile.

Greg’s hands settle on his hips, and apply a little pressure to turn him. Mycroft’s heart gives a painful lurch in his chest as he turns around.

“Hi you,” smiles Greg. “Alright?”

“My apologies,” sighs Mycroft. “There are many interests to represent at this meeting tonight. I seem to have been on the telephone for hours.”

Greg makes a sympathetic noise in his throat. “Want me to piss off again?”

Mycroft’s hands tighten in the fabric of Greg’s shirt, and he surprises himself with the quiet vehemence of his own _no._ Greg’s smile widens and his eyes are deep and soft. Mycroft withdraws his work phone from his pocket and gestures towards the desk with it. “I do need to –” He gently disentangles himself from Greg’s hold and goes to plug the mobile into the charging cable protruding from behind his computer.

He glances at his inbox and sees that the meeting has been moved fifteen minutes later still. He sighs. Perhaps it would be better simply to stay at work through the night after all. By the time the call ends, there will be so little time –  A glance up from the corner of his eye shows him Greg, watching him with slightly-lowered eyelids and a touch of a smile.

Inexplicably shy, Mycroft glances up to meet Greg’s eyes, then down and away. “Is there –” he hesitates.

Greg steps up close, and his hand is warm and strong on Mycroft’s arm. “You just look good to me, Myc, that’s all,” he murmurs, then laughs at the glare he receives for the nickname.

Mycroft isn’t sure what to say, so he arranges a couple of pens on the desk.

“You know what else?” asks Greg, stepping around the corner of the desk to put his arms around Mycroft. Mycroft shakes his head a fraction, melting into the warmth of Greg’s body. “I was thinking about when you used to call me over here at all hours of the day and night.” His voice is low, lips brushing Mycroft’s neck.

“There were special circumstances,” returns Mycroft. Greg is filling his senses, and suddenly the hours between being curled in bed together and now seem like mere moments, fading to nothing.

“Of course,” says Greg. “But I used to imagine all sorts.”

Mycroft gives an interrogatory _mmm?_ as he nuzzles his nose further into Greg’s neck. The shirt collar is an annoyance, impeding his access to the golden skin he craves.

Suddenly, Mycroft finds himself being steered backwards, gentle but firm hands on his biceps. Greg pushes him down into his office chair, then runs a finger down his cheek. He squats in front of Mycroft so they are at roughly the same level, and leans in for a kiss. It is slow but insistent. Mycroft tightens his hands on the arms of his chair.

“Sometimes,” murmurs Greg, placing a kiss to the corner of Mycroft’s mouth, “you were a right sarcastic bastard, all annoyed and imperious, and I’d imagine grabbing you by the jacket and shutting you up with a kiss so hard it would hurt.” He pulls back just a little, and grins at the effect of his words. “And later, whenever I finally got home, I’d imagine fucking you over the desk.” Mycroft takes a sharp breath in as he feels Greg’s hands slide up his legs, thumbs tracing a line up his inner thighs.

Greg’s voice is gentle when he continues. “Sometimes you were tired and distracted and you tried to seem as calm as usual, but I could tell you were so worried about your brother. And all I wanted to do was put my arms around you.” He puts a hand up to Mycroft’s cheek and pulls him forward into another kiss. There’s a hint of a bite to Mycroft’s bottom lip.

“I had no idea our meetings had inspired such pleasant thoughts,” gasps Mycroft as Greg slides his right hand a little higher. “Although I must confess that you are not the only one to have imagined –” He clears his throat and drops his gaze, trying to ignore how desperately hard he is in his suit trousers.

“Imagined what, Mycroft?” Greg’s voice is dark and a little rough. Mycroft feels it as a shiver down his spine.

“Since you wish me to say it,” he says drily, giving Greg a sidelong glance, “to have imagined you fucking me over the desk.” He can’t help a twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“Damn right I want you to say it, Mycroft,” smiles Greg. “Consider my ego permanently boosted.”

Mycroft drops his eyes to Greg’s hand, stationary on his upper thigh. Greg’s thumb is teasing back and forth over the fabric of his suit trousers. Mycroft looks Greg right in the eye and raises an eyebrow.

Greg laughs, brown eyes sparkling. “You distracted me.”

Mycroft raises the other eyebrow, too.

“I wish that didn’t turn me on so much,” sighs Greg. “Anyway, _as I was saying,”_ he adds, “All I’ve been able to think about today is this.” His strong fingers move the last few inches of Mycroft’s leg, to trace the outline of his straining cock through the fabric. Greg shifts onto his knees and reaches up again, taking hold of the knot of Mycroft’s tie to pull him forward. Their lips meet in a bruising kiss as Greg fumbles with Mycroft’s trouser buttons and fly. Mycroft teases Greg’s upper lip with the tip of his tongue, heart beating wildly as Greg gives a little moan and presses even harder into the kiss.

Greg has got his fly open at last, and Mycroft gasps with the shock of sensation as Greg closes his hand around his cock. Greg bites down hard on his bottom lip before pulling out of the kiss. “I’ve wanted this since the minute I woke up,” he growls, his eyes wide and dark.

Mycroft takes a gulp of air as Greg shuffles just a little forward on his knees and bends to kiss the tip of his cock. Greg’s right hand is wrapped around his length and with his left he reaches up to take Mycroft’s hand from the arm of the chair. He pulls Mycroft’s hand to his own head, pushing down just a little. Then his left hand moves to splay across Mycroft’s stomach, fingertips teasing gently through the fabric of his shirt.

“Greg,” murmurs Mycroft. He hardly recognises his own voice. He’s unable to look away. The scene in front of him outlines itself with strange clarity, underscored by tight, building pleasure. The bright white of Greg’s shirt, taut across his shoulderblades. The silver of his hair, soft between Mycroft’s fingers. His mouth – his tongue – Mycroft moans and tightens his fingers in Greg’s hair.

Greg groans around Mycroft’s cock, hand tightening around the shaft as he swirls his tongue over the head. The sensation is almost unbearably good. Greg loosens his hand a little and takes Mycroft a little further in, then pulls off to lick his cock all over. When his hand starts to slowly stroke Mycroft’s cock from top to bottom, the pleasure is heightened by the slickness. Mycroft bites his bottom lip and fights back a shredded moan.

Greg grins up at him wickedly, and kneels up to take a kiss, his tongue slipping roughly past Mycroft’s lips. Mycroft is leaning helplessly back in his chair, eyes half-closed with pleasure and need. “Okay?” asks Greg, with a soft smile. The movement of his hand, however, is relentless.

Mycroft can’t help a small smile. _Okay_ doesn’t quite cover it. “Outstanding,” he murmurs, into another kiss.

“Mmm,” mumbles Greg. “Good. You are just unbelievably fucking… I could do this all day.” He kisses the corner of Mycroft’s mouth.

Mycroft gives a short dry laugh. “That is not going to be possible, I’m afraid.”

Greg grins in return. “Put your hand back on my head,” is all he says as he bends down again. “I want to feel you holding me down.”

Mycroft thrills to Greg’s words, burying his right hand in the gorgeous silver strands again. His left he brings to Greg’s shoulderblade, running his long fingers over the curve of Greg’s shoulder, down his arm. And then the tight, wet heat of Greg’s mouth is around him again, and he groans with the sharp edge of pleasure lancing through him. Involuntarily he tightens his fingers in Greg’s hair, then remembers that this is what Greg wants, and allows his hand to lie a little heavier. Greg moans intensely around his cock.

It’s not going to be long. Mycroft is breathing hard, cock throbbing desperately in Greg’s hand and mouth. He tugs a little harder still at the soft silver hair between his long fingers. “Greg,” he murmurs. _“Greg –”_

Greg opens his eyes and tips his gaze up, maintaining eye contact, his eyes dark and deep. “Fuck – Greg –” Mycroft moans and strokes his fingers through Greg’s hair. It’s too much, this strange incredible picture he’s somehow part of, Greg’s eyes locked on his own. The tight coil of need in his belly unravels at last; he’s coming, and his eyes fly closed as he moans out Greg’s name, losing himself in soft tight heat and the rippling sensation as Greg swallows him down.

When Mycroft comes to himself, Greg places a kiss to the tip of his cock and grins up at him. “You’re fucking hot when you come,” he says.

“Greg – that was –” Mycroft shakes his head slightly against the back of the office chair.

“Good. You wouldn’t believe the number of times I’ve thought about sucking you off in this chair.” Greg gives a chuckle. “Please note my restraint in not making you come all over your gorgeous suit, even though I really, really wanted to.”

Mycroft blinks at him. “Stand up,” he says. His voice is silky.

Greg does so, leaning back casually against the edge of Mycroft’s desk. The line of his suit trousers is distended by his straining cock. The sight makes Mycroft’s mouth dry. He tucks himself away and does up his fly, then stands up too, making the most of his height advantage. He buries the fingers of his right hand in Greg’s hair and tugs his head back, then kisses him hard.

The taste of himself on Greg’s tongue sends a shiver of illicit pleasure down his spine. He moves both hands to unbuckle Greg’s belt and unzip his fly. He squeezes Greg’s cock gently through his boxers, then pushes both those and his trousers down to mid-thigh. He brings his right hand to Greg’s mouth and strokes his thumb along his bottom lip. Greg’s cheeks are flushed, his eyes wide. Mycroft bends his head and kisses Greg’s earlobe, then draws it between his teeth. “Suck my fingers,” he orders, voice low and forceful. “I know you’re good with your mouth. Make my whole hand wet.”

Greg moans as Mycroft presses his thumb between his lips.

Mycroft kisses along Greg’s jawline. He brings his left hand up to Greg’s hair, and pulls it gently as he steps closer, bringing his thigh to Greg’s throbbing cock. “Come on,” he murmurs into Greg’s ear.

With a catch of breath in his throat, Greg shifts closer and presses his cock against Mycroft’s thigh. His tongue is laving Mycroft’s index and second fingers, exploring every sensitive place. He groans a little as he starts to move, rubbing against the fabric, his cock hard and hot.

Mycroft bites at Greg’s jaw, then begins to kiss and lick down his neck. He takes his hand from Greg’s hair for a few moments to loosen his collar, and finally, _finally,_ he has access to the gorgeous, soft skin at the base of his neck. He kisses and inhales at the place that Greg’s neck meets his shoulder, then sucks a bitemark into his skin. Greg moans helplessly and ruts harder against his thigh.

Against a little resistance, Mycroft takes his right hand from Greg’s mouth, and moves it down between them to wrap his long fingers around Greg’s hard cock. “Myc – fuck – please –” Greg’s words end on a gasp as Mycroft starts to stroke him, hard. With his left hand he pulls Greg’s head back again, and kisses him.

He can feel that Greg is close, his cock larger and harder still than before. He tightens his hand but makes his strokes lighter and quicker, his thumb playing over the head at the top of every stroke. He caresses Greg’s scalp with his fingertips, and looks down into his deep brown eyes, which are trying to fall closed with mounting pleasure.

“No,” whispers Mycroft roughly. “Watch.”

Greg’s eyes snap fully open, and he leans his forehead against Mycroft’s shoulder. “Fuck – _fuck_ –” he mutters incoherently.

Mycroft drops a kiss into Greg’s hair, pulls back to watch. He concentrates on keeping his strokes fast and even, driving Greg relentlessly towards the edge. Suddenly he feels Greg’s hands tighten in his shirt, and then he’s moaning, “Myc – Mycroft – oh –”

Mycroft angles Greg’s cock towards himself, letting the spurts of Greg’s come stripe across his shirt and suit trousers, his braces. Greg is shaking, watching spellbound, breath coming in gasps. At last, Mycroft just holds him.

Eventually Greg tips his head back, cheeks flushed and his eyes shining. He flicks his eyes to Mycroft’s mouth, and Mycroft leans down to kiss him, gently.

“Bloody hell, Myc, why did you let me – I mean – fucking hell – but –” he gestures impatiently, amused and frustrated at his own incoherence.

“You wanted to,” says Mycroft simply. “I wanted you to.”

“But – your meeting.”

“I have a spare suit and shirts here.”

Greg leans up for another kiss. They breathe one another in, foreheads together.

“Come to mine when you’re finished here,” says Greg, his voice a little thin. “I don’t care what time.” His hands are tight in Mycroft’s shirt.

Mycroft sighs. “I cannot. It will probably be one by the time the call ends. Once I arrive at yours I will have at most two hours of sleep before I have to leave to return to mine to change and prepare for the day.”

Greg makes a pained noise and closes his eyes as he pushes his forehead gently against Mycroft’s.

Mycroft can’t bear it. “Go to my flat,” he murmurs, before he has even thought about it. “I will inform my security team that you should be allowed in.”

Greg opens his eyes, and his smile is soft. “Sure?” he asks.

Mycroft’s heart turns over in his chest. He nods, a gentle nudge of their foreheads. “Yes. Of course.”


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU for being such gorgeous readers ❤️ This chapter is insanely long but I hope you don't mind.

Mycroft wakes, blinking sleep out of his eyes to see Greg placing a mug of coffee on the bedside table next to him. Greg glances down and sees him waking. He grins as he runs one finger down Mycroft’s sleep-flushed cheek. “Should’ve known you’d wake up the minute I got back.”

Mycroft stretches a little and makes an  _ mmm _ noise at the smell of the coffee. “You were hoping I would stay asleep?” he asks, following Greg with his eyes as he carries his own mug around the bed.

“Not for long,” says Greg, climbing back under the duvet. “Just until I could get in and wake you up properly.”

“Properly,” returns Mycroft, with a cautious smile. “What does that entail?” He laughs quietly as Greg cuddles up close, turning him onto his side, facing away. Greg wraps his arm firmly around Mycroft’s waist and snuggles his knees into the backs of Mycroft’s.

“This,” murmurs Greg. “Exactly this.” He props his head on his hand and leans down to kiss Mycroft’s ear. Mycroft turns just a little, so that he can look up at him.

“Your knees feel nice,” he says, sleepily. 

“Mmm,” hums Greg.  _ “Your  _ knees feel nice.” Greg squeezes him tighter around the waist and leans down for a kiss. Mycroft pushes him off almost immediately.

“You’ve done your teeth,” he protests. Greg makes a grumbling noise and tries to reclaim the kiss, but Mycroft wriggles out from under the duvet to pad off to the ensuite. He’s glad of his pyjamas, his aching morning erection not quite so obvious. In the bathroom he does his teeth and tries to arrange his hair a bit, then relieves himself and washes his hands.

When he emerges, Greg is sitting up against the headboard, sipping coffee. He looks terrifyingly good – ruffled hair, soft cotton t-shirt showing off his biceps. Mycroft swallows hard and steps back to the bed. He picks up his mobile to check the time. Only just 6am.

“You woke us up early,” he says, giving Greg a little smile as he slips back under the duvet. He picks up his coffee and takes a sip, then returns it to the bedside table. He shifts onto his side with his head propped on his hand, looking up at Greg.

Greg puts his coffee down too, and lies down next to him. “Do I get kisses now?” he asks, mock-crossly.

Mycroft smiles but doesn’t get a chance to answer before Greg has pulled him in close. The kiss is gentle but intense. Greg cups Mycroft’s face with both hands, and Mycroft hums approval as Greg teases at his lips with his tongue.

“I want you so much,” whispers Greg. His voice is low and rough with sleep.

Mycroft nuzzles his neck and kisses his earlobe. “Yesterday was –” he murmurs. “I have not stopped thinking about it.”

“I know,” says Greg. “Me neither.” His voice rasps and Mycroft can’t help the little  _ mmm  _ noise he makes as he kisses Greg’s jaw.

“What?”

Mycroft pulls back a bit, then buries his face in Greg’s neck. “Your voice is deep.” He can feel his cheeks going slightly pink.

“Oh yeah,” grins Greg, turning on his side and slipping his arm over Mycroft’s waist. “I forgot you’re helpless for my morning voice.” He laughs as Mycroft gives him a sidelong scornful glance. “Alright, alright, maybe not  _ helpless.”  _ He drops a kiss on Mycroft’s shoulder. “The thing is,” he smiles slowly, voice deliberately low and dark, “I woke you up early because I need you.”

Mycroft isn’t sure what to say. He’s already hard again. He slips both hands under the hem of Greg’s t-shirt and pulls it up, craving skin. Greg lifts both arms and wriggles out of it, then does the same to Mycroft.

They sigh with satisfaction as their chests meet. Greg wraps his arms around Mycroft, pulls him as close as possible. Mycroft feels his cock brush Greg's through the fabric of their pyjamas, and can’t help his sharp intake of breath. Greg smiles and kisses him, nibbling gently at his bottom lip. His fingers slip under the waistband of Mycroft’s pyjamas. “I want these off you,” Greg murmurs.

Mycroft rolls onto his back and holds his hips up so that Greg can pull his pyjamas down, then kicks them fully off. He’s already working on Greg’s, lifting the soft cotton carefully away from his body. Greg straddles him and brings their hard cocks together, reaching down to wrap his hand around both of them. Mycroft gives a stifled moan as Greg’s thumb swipes over the head.

Mycroft’s eyes sweep closed and Greg leans over him to press their foreheads together. “I want to see your eyes,” he says quietly, voice deliberately low. “Hey.”

Mycroft opens his eyes again. His head swims, disorientated by the intimacy of Greg’s gaze. “I keep thinking about –” he gasps as Greg pulls them together in a long, luxurious stroke “– what you said yesterday. I want you to fuck me.”

Greg goes still for a moment, eyes widening. Then he growls slightly in his throat, and dips down for a hard, demanding kiss. He pulls back, breathing deeply. “There isn’t time now,” he says, voice rough. He leans down to nip Mycroft’s earlobe and murmur in his ear. “I want to rim you until you’re begging me to fuck you.”

Mycroft feels his cock throb against Greg’s. “I can beg you now, Detective Inspector,” he purrs. “If you like.”

“You bastard,” grins Greg, hanging over him and looking him right in the eye. “I have an idea. You got any lube?”

Mycroft indicates the bedside table, and Greg leans away on all fours to reach it. Mycroft takes advantage of the position to wrap his hand around Greg’s cock, hanging heavy between his legs. Greg growls as he returns to sit on Mycroft’s thighs. He pours a generous amount of lube into his palm and waits a few moments, running the fingers of his left hand over Mycroft’s chest.

Once the lube has warmed up, Greg brings their cocks together again and makes sure they are both slick. Mycroft lifts one eyebrow at him and Greg snorts a laugh. “Bloody impatient, Mycroft Holmes,” he grins.

He takes another pump of lube. Mycroft feels him shuffle a little further, weight shifting towards his knees. Greg runs one finger down Mycroft’s thigh, and suddenly he understands what the lube is for. “Yes?” asks Greg.

“Mmm, yes,” says Mycroft silkily, spreading his thighs just a little. Greg’s hand is warm and slick as it slides between them. Mycroft reaches up and takes hold of the headboard with both hands. Greg runs his hand smoothly up, stroking Mycroft’s cock again with his lube-covered hand. “Fuck me, Detective Inspector,” murmurs Mycroft.

Greg runs his eyes up Mycroft’s body as he shifts over him. He smiles slowly as they lock eye contact. “You know exactly how to send me mad, don’t you?”

Mycroft smirks. “So far it’s all talk.”

Greg laughs and leans down for a kiss. It’s hard and needy; Mycroft takes a sharp breath as Greg bites his bottom lip. He can feel Greg’s shoulder move and knows that he is touching himself. His stomach flips and his cock throbs at the thought. He groans into the kiss.

Greg’s cock pushing between his thighs makes him growl in the back of his throat. He tightens his thighs, crossing his ankles. Greg leans down to kiss him again as he pushes in. “You feel – fuck – fucking incredible,” he whispers.

Mycroft arches his back and pushes up, taking one hand from the headboard to run it down Greg’s back. Greg growls and grabs his arm, intertwining their fingers then pinning his hand down on the mattress near his head. He starts to thrust into the slick tightness of Mycroft’s thighs.

It is exquisite torture. The teasing friction to his cock from Greg’s flat stomach winds his arousal tighter with every stroke. After a few minutes, Mycroft arches his back again and groans out a broken version of Greg’s name. 

Greg leans down to kiss his neck, biting and licking at his collarbone and up to his ear. “Touch yourself for me,” he instructs, voice dark and rough.

Mycroft takes his hand from the headboard and slips it between their bodies. Closing his long fingers around his cock is a blessed relief. He tips his head to Greg, nuzzling at his neck and hair.

Greg pulls himself a little further up, and now with every stroke his straining cock is rubbing slickly over Mycroft’s balls and perineum. Every sensation seems to intensify, and Mycroft feels the heat of orgasm start to pool in his belly. “Fuck,” he mouths, watching Greg – he is looking down at the sight of himself disappearing between Mycroft’s thighs, at Mycroft’s hand flying over his own length. Mycroft’s strokes are short and light at the head – tantalisingly close –

Greg’s dark eyes snap back up to Mycroft’s. Mycroft leans up for a kiss, though it’s little more than panting into one another’s mouths. “Mycroft – I – I can’t –” moans Greg. “Come for me. Come for me, gorgeous.” He bites at Mycroft’s bottom lip and that is the end, Mycroft loses sight and sound as only rippling pleasure takes over, arching his back, coming between their bellies. As he starts to come down he feels Greg’s hand clutch tight in his own, rigid cock pulsing wet heat between his thighs. He glories in the feeling, clenching his thighs as tight as possible for Greg to ride out the waves of his climax.

Finally Greg collapses onto him, and Mycroft wraps his arms around his waist, his shoulders. They are both sweaty, panting hard and covered in each other’s come. “Fucking hell,” murmurs Greg dreamily into Mycroft’s neck.

Mycroft’s not sure how long they lie there, drifting and occasionally exchanging small nuzzles or kisses to one another’s skin. Eventually, though, Greg shifts and pushes himself up onto his arms. “Sorry, I’ve flattened you,” he smiles, rolling his weight off and plastering himself down Mycroft’s side instead. “We are impressively sticky,” he grins proudly.

“Indeed,” grimaces Mycroft. “And I must get ready for work.”

“Me too,” sighs Greg. “Shower together?”

Mycroft pulls back a little to look at him. “Yes?”

_ “Mmm,”  _ sighs Greg happily, cupping Mycroft’s face in his hand and drawing him in for a sweet, gentle kiss. “I'll just pop to the loo. Pick out your suit for the day. I’m going to enjoy watching you put it on.” He gives Mycroft a cheeky grin and heads into the bathroom.

In the shower, Mycroft washes Greg's hair and Greg scoffs at the expensiveness of the shampoo and shower gels. This is resolved by Mycroft pushing Greg up against the shower wall and kissing him hard. At the mirror, they shave together to the Radio 4 Today programme, which makes Mycroft smile wryly a couple of times and snort derisively once. Greg laughs at him for that and gets aggressively moisturised once he's finished shaving. They trade kisses as they stumble back to the bedroom. Greg throws himself onto the bed in his towel and looks expectantly at Mycroft.

Mycroft widens his eyes at him, but Greg does the same back and grins. “Suit up, gorgeous. I'm watching.”

Mycroft feels his cheeks go slightly pink. “I –” he stops. Greg’s off the bed in a second and puts his arms around him.

“Hey,” he murmurs, leaning up for a kiss. “I’m sorry. I’m just being an old perv. Making you uncomfortable.”

Mycroft winces slightly and shakes his head. “No – I – I’m sorry.” He closes his eyes briefly.

“Oi, stop it,” says Greg, looking up at him earnestly. “One day soon you’re going to realise I find you absolutely fucking gorgeous and watching you put on a  _ binbag _ could get me hard –” he grins as Mycroft snorts and rolls his eyes. “But until then, I’ll just have to postpone that fantasy of making myself come as you get dressed, watching me in the mirror.”

Mycroft’s spine snaps straight. He opens his mouth, then closes it again.

“Oh good, you like that idea too,” murmurs Greg as he leans up for another kiss. It spins out, Mycroft caressing Greg’s back, drawing patterns with his long fingers. As they pull apart, Mycroft sees the clock on the dresser.

“I am afraid I must now dress in a much more utilitarian way and leave for work. My driver and security team will be wondering what is wrong.” He sighs and takes half a step backwards.

“Yeah, yeah, go and get on with running the country then,” grumbles Greg long-sufferingly. “It’s not as if I’ll just spend all day desperate for you or anything.”

Mycroft gives a doubtful hiss. “You will spend all day doing your job diligently, Detective Inspector, as you always do.” Greg grins at him.

They dress together. Mycroft is amazed at the number of ways Greg can find to touch him as they pull on their clothes. For himself, he is hesitant to touch unasked, but can't help the odd caress in return. The crinkled smile in Greg's eyes when he does makes his heart clench.

Once he is completely ready, Mycroft texts his driver and pockets both his phones. Greg, handsome in his grey suit and white shirt, steps up close for one more kiss.

“Not having breakfast before you go?”

“I will have something at the office,” returns Mycroft with a half-shake of his head.

“You don't take care of yourself, Mycroft Holmes.” Greg's eyes are deep, soft brown in the morning light. Mycroft dips his head to take another kiss. Greg's hands steal under his suit jacket and stroke the silken back of his waistcoat. Mycroft brings his left hand up to massage Greg's scalp and gently pull his hair.

After a minute, Greg pushes him off. “Bloody hell, you're doing it again,” he grumbles, eyes sparkling. “How am I supposed to –” he gestures in the air, “–  _ get on  _ with stuff?”

_“I'm_ doing it?” returns Mycroft heatedly. _“I_ am the one trying to leave for work.”

“Whatever Mycroft,” teases Greg. He smoothes his hands down the lapels of Mycroft's dark grey suit. “How am I going to make it through to –” he pauses and frowns slightly, then goes quiet, pressing his lips together.

Mycroft hates the pinched look around Greg's eyes. “Actually,” he says hurriedly, before he can think too much, “my first meeting is not until nine tomorrow, and my last should end around ten tonight.” He pauses awkwardly, worried he may have assumed too much.

Greg's smile and sigh of relief say otherwise. “So I'll come here? Or you come to mine?”

“To yours, this time, perhaps,” says Mycroft quietly.

“Great. I'll make us dinner,” says Greg, pushing Mycroft towards the bedroom door.

“I am sorry I returned too late last night to do so,” says Mycroft. “I was not a good host.”

“I was asleep,” chuckles Greg. “And I'd eaten. Can't wait to see you cooking though.” Mycroft glances at him, unable to fathom the tone of voice. Perhaps the idea is absurd. Greg grins at him. “It's your hands again,” he stage-whispers. “You chopping stuff is bound to be sexy.” 

Mycroft rolls his eyes and suppresses a smile. They reach the front door and Greg pulls his shoes on. Mycroft puts a hand on his arm. “We should – say goodbye here.”

Greg nods and steps close, slipping his arms around Mycroft's waist, underneath his jacket. “Have a good day.”

“You too.” Mycroft wraps a hand around the back of Greg's neck and pulls him in. The kiss is gentle at first, but it tips into something different when Mycroft catches his breath in his throat. Greg backs him against the wall and hums his approval.

“We have to go to work,” protests Mycroft, making precisely no move at all.

“Yes. Goodbye. And see you later,” mumbles Greg, nibbling Mycroft's earlobe.

“Get off,” returns Mycroft, stretching his neck for Greg's kisses, and groaning slightly as Greg bites him just under his ear.

“Yes, absolutely,” says Greg, placing kisses along Mycroft's jawline.

“You represent a threat to the country,” grumbles Mycroft, gently pushing Greg away. “This is probably treasonous.”

“You can arrest me later,” grins Greg. “I'll bring the handcuffs.”

Mycroft groans and picks up his umbrella. “Get out, and for the love of God don't touch me.”

Greg smiles smugly all the way down to the street door, where they nod at one another before Mycroft climbs into his car and Greg heads to the tube.

*

**[12:27] I am afraid I have some annoying news to tell you this evening. MH**

[15:59] Sorry slow to respond, busy day (robbery case again). Sounds ominous. What time will you be over? Got to go home before coming to mine? G

**[17:34] Anthea has arranged a bag of things for me, so I can come straight to you. Should be with you by 22:45. MH**

[17:35] Will you want to eat at that time? I'll get dinner ready for you if you will. G

**[17:36] Perhaps just a snack? I can bring something with me of course. MH**

[17:37] Nonsense. How about pitta bread, hummus and stuff? I'll pick some up on the way home if you fancy it. G

**[17:43] Sounds delicious. MH**

[17:44] Good. See you tonight. G

*

Mycroft finds himself pulled into a hug before he even crosses the threshold of Greg's flat. “Alright?” Greg's lips are soft against his neck.

“Mmm,” he hums in return. “And you?”

“Just a long day,” says Greg, taking his hand and pulling him inside. “Drop your bag and suit in the bedroom. Feel free to use the wardrobe to hang stuff up.” They kiss, Mycroft almost lightheaded with how simply  _ good  _ it feels to hold and be held again. Greg's hand cups his cheek, fingertips stroking gently at the soft skin in front of his ear.

Mycroft pulls away to go into the bedroom. In solitude, he takes a deep breath. He hangs his suit carrier in the wardrobe and drops his bag on the bed. Puts his hands over his eyes. Composes himself.

Greg has laid out pitta bread, hummus, olives, cucumber and carrot sticks, grapes and cherries on the table. “There's wine if you fancy it,” he says doubtfully, sliding his arm around Mycroft's waist.

Mycroft smiles. “Somewhat late for me.”

They sit. Mycroft finds his foot in contact with Greg's under the table. His heart lurches, thinking about the last time they sat here like this.

“What's this worrying news then?” asks Greg, helping himself to food and pushing things toward Mycroft.

Mycroft sighs. “I was unsure last night whether it would be necessary, but it has become obvious today – it appears that I will need to undertake a trip to China and other parts of Asia.”

Greg nods. His foot presses against Mycroft's. “Alright. That's pretty normal isn't it?”

“Certainly,” says Mycroft. “On this occasion, it will be rather a longer trip than usual. It seems – perhaps a month. The details have not yet been entirely finalised.” He flicks his gaze up to Greg's face, suddenly feeling the weight of his own presumption. It's not as though Greg cannot get by without him. It had been a mistake to mention it.

Greg's face is blank. He stares down at his plate, then up to smile gently at Mycroft. “When d’you have to leave?”

“As I say, it is not entirely fixed yet,” returns Mycroft cautiously. “But Anthea suggested it is likely to be this Saturday.”

Greg nods, fiddling with a small piece of bread. “I could – drive you to the airport, if you wanted. Or – actually you're probably not going from a normal airport,” he mutters. 

“Just Heathrow,” says Mycroft with a wry smile. “You seem to think I travel on Air Force One.”

Greg chuckles, but doesn't stop rolling the bread between his fingers. “First class though, yeah?” he asks. “Don't ruin all my illusions in one go.”

“First class,” confirms Mycroft. He watches the sweep of Greg's long, dark eyelashes across his cheeks. “The unfortunate thing is,” he adds hesitantly, “that I will not have access to a fully secure internet connection for the majority of that time. Probably around three weeks. All messages will need to be short and rather – to the point.” He looks down at his own plate.

“I thought we'd already had the unfortunate news,” says Greg, with a flat attempt at levity. “But you'll be able to let me know you're okay?”

“Of course I will be okay,” returns Mycroft. Greg's eyelashes flutter. “But I will let you know,” he adds, more softly. He pushes Greg's foot with his own.

Greg darts him a grateful glance. “So you’ll be back…?”

“The suggested flight home is on Thursday 18th June.” Mycroft swallows. “The only complication is that I have to go straight to Oxford for the full weekend – I have been asked to represent –” he speaks more hurriedly as he sees Greg’s eyes drop back to the table. “That is unimportant. I am not sure what your plans for that weekend are – perhaps friends or family – but I wondered…” He sighs. “I thought perhaps you would enjoy a weekend in Oxford. With me.” He strokes his toes over Greg's ankle. “For your birthday.”

Greg’s eyes snap up to his, and he gives a rueful grin. “Ah bollocks, you do know then,” he chuckles. “Thought I might’ve got away with it.”

“I like to think I would not be  _ that  _ neglectful,” says Mycroft haughtily. “Could you take annual leave on the Friday? I am sorry to say I will be busy during the day, but in the evening we could have dinner together.”

Greg smiles at him. His eyes are soft and dark. “I’d love to.” Mycroft silently lets out the breath he’s been holding. “Bloody hell though, Mycroft. That’s nearly five weeks.”

Mycroft nods, trying not to look as miserable as he feels. “I am sure it will pass quickly once we are both immersed in work.”

“Yeah.” There’s a small silence. “Come to bed,” says Greg.

*

[06:24] So sorry you got woken up at hell o’clock when I got the call. Nasty murder. Find everything you needed for breakfast etc.? G

**[06:25] Indeed, thank you Greg. I am nearly at work. MH**

[10:48] Why is your brother such a little shit? G

**[10:52] What has he done? MH**

[11:31] Stupid bastard. Tell you about it later. Not sure what time I’ll be done. G

**[20:29] How is progress on the case? I am going into my final meeting, then I thought perhaps I would return home. MH**

[20:56] Still not sure when I’ll be finished. Trying to get some emergency warrants through. Should I come to yours, or leave it for another night? G

**[20:57] I have to leave at 4am tomorrow (a day in Bristol) so, reluctantly, perhaps it would be best. MH**

[01:03] Bugger, only just getting in. Those warrants came through suspiciously quickly after your last text, by the way. Hope you’re sleeping! Miss you. G

**[04:25] In the car for Bristol. A beautiful sunrise this morning. I hope the day proves productive. MH**

[05:58] Just leaving for work. What time will you be home tonight? Don’t think I can go without seeing you again. Only a couple of days until you leave for your trip. G

**[06:03] I hope to be back at my flat (working at home, and packing) by early evening. You would be very welcome to come over, if you are able. MH**

[06:04] Will do. No idea what time, but I’ll let you know how it’s going. G

**[15:42] Just starting the journey back. Made progress? MH**

[16:07] Not bad. Mopping up the beginning of the paperwork now. Let me know when you’re back, I’ll go home about 5 and pick up a few bits. Can’t wait to see you! G

**[18:01] I am home. MH**

[18:10] On my way. What time’s your flight on Saturday? G

**[18:12] 11am. MH**

*

“Mycroft?”

“Mmm?” Mycroft is suddenly alert. “Greg, are you alright? It’s –” he pauses, stretches to pick up his phone. “It’s two in the morning. Can’t you sleep?”

“I’m sorry to wake you. I just – I’m worrying.”

“What about?” Mycroft rolls onto his side, facing Greg, but the other man keeps his eyes stubbornly closed. His fine features are outlined in the traces of streetlight making their way around the curtains.

“You. The trip. This – this. Um. Us.” Greg’s eyes stay closed, but his eyelashes flutter delicately against his cheeks. “If there is – that. An us, I mean.”

Mycroft puts his hand on Greg’s chest. “Should we – talk?”

Greg nods, in the darkness.

“Perhaps with your eyes open,” smiles Mycroft, leaning down to place a kiss delicately on Greg’s shoulder. “Hold on, keep them closed for a moment.” He rolls over to turn on the lamp on his bedside table. “So.”

Greg blinks against the warm light cast by the lamp. “I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I don’t want to – force anything, or push you or whatever –”

Mycroft drapes his arm over Greg’s waist. “I will be quite safe in China,” he says, gently.

“I know,” says Greg miserably. “I just – I know this is going to sound soppy, or stupid or something –” he sighs. “I hated being away from you for one night last night. What’s nearly five weeks going to be like?”

Mycroft tries to ignore how hard his heart is beating. “I know it will be difficult for me, anyway,” he says softly. It's hard to keep his tone even.

“And not being able to talk properly,” adds Greg unhappily.

“Yes,” returns Mycroft. “But I will email you everyday. Or text, if the internet connection proves less than reliable. I simply will not be able to say much of import.”

“Everyday?” asks Greg. “That would be – only last time you were away I didn’t hear much, and – I worried a bit…” he trails off, biting his bottom lip.

“I did not understand, then, that you – that I – that we –” Mycroft stops and closes his eyes, annoyed at his own incoherence.

Greg looks at him doubtfully, eyelids a little lowered. “Do you understand now?” he asks quietly.

Mycroft is not sure what to say. He blinks, then leans forward and presses their lips softly together. Greg winds his arm around his waist and pulls him close.

“Please tell me you can come home at a decent hour tomorrow – bugger, I mean  _ this _ evening,” says Greg. “Come home and go straight to bed.”

“You are right,” says Mycroft musingly. “I will need to catch up on my sleep before I leave.”

Greg gives a rather wan chuckle. “Bollocks to sleep, Mycroft, we have five weeks’ worth of fucking to do.”


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry...every chapter is getting longer! Thank you so much for sticking with this fic ❤️

“Mycroft?” Greg calls. Mycroft hears the front door shut, and the faint sounds of Greg hanging up his jacket, taking off his shoes.

“In here,” he returns, leaning back in his office chair. He came home at lunchtime, finished packing and sat down with his laptop for a few hours’ work. He runs his hand through his hair and flicks his eyes to the clock on the wall: half past five already.

Greg left for work with him early this morning, muttering grumpily that “I’m leaving by five even if someone gets murdered.”

Greg appears in the doorway, feet bare. He’s rolling his shirt cuffs up to the elbow. “Alright, gorgeous,” he smiles.

Mycroft sweeps him with a look. Everything about Greg’s demeanour suggests urgency of purpose. He seems ready to leave the room again. Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “No-one was murdered, then?”

“Not in my area, anyway,” grins Greg. “Ready to stop work?”

“That depends,” says Mycroft, silkily.

Greg chuckles knowingly. “Well okay then. I’m going to run us a bath.” He disappears from the doorway.

Mycroft takes a deep breath and shuts down his laptop, then pads off to the guest bathroom. He relieves himself and splashes his face with cold water. He’s already flushed. He stares deep into his dark grey eyes in the mirror, setting his jaw determinedly. He refuses to go away for five weeks without the memory of Greg inside him, surrounding him, owning him. And yet – it has been so long. He prepared carefully earlier, but even so his stomach flips and his hands tighten on the cold ceramic sides of the sink. He closes his eyes, breathes out and steps to the door.

“I’m getting in,” yells Greg from Mycroft’s ensuite. “Hurry up, gorgeous.”

Mycroft arrives in the bathroom in time to see Greg settling himself with a satisfied groan into the huge, foaming bubble bath he’s run. He can’t stop a smile at Greg’s blissful expression.

“Come on in,” says Greg, voice low. “It’s lovely.”

Mycroft keeps his eyes fixed on Greg’s as he starts to loosen his tie. “It looks very hot,” he says blandly.

Greg grins up at him. “Certainly is. I love a boiling-hot bath. Too much for your tender pale skin?”

Mycroft places his tie next to the sink and sits down on the edge of the bath, tipping his wrists to take out his cufflinks. He leans forward to deposit them on the counter and dips his fingers into the water, running his index finger slowly along Greg’s thigh. “Perhaps. It will be your fault if I end up looking like a boiled lobster.” He stands up and pushes his braces down, then begins undoing every shirt button, from the neck downwards. Greg’s eyes follow his fingers.

Mycroft untucks and sheds his shirt, unbuttons his trousers. He takes a silent breath and pushes the rest of his clothes off in one go, stepping out of trousers and pants together. Greg holds out his hand and Mycroft takes it, dips a toe delicately into the water. He hisses at the heat, but gets used to it quickly; Greg draws him down to sit between his legs, back to his chest. “Hi,” murmurs Greg, into his ear.

“Mmm, hello,” returns Mycroft, noticing with a flip of his stomach that Greg is already hard against his back. “I have not taken a bath in a long time. Usually I prefer showers.”

“Same here.” Greg’s left arm is wrapped around Mycroft’s stomach, right hand drawing lazily on his chest through the water. Mycroft catches his breath slightly as Greg smoothes his thumb over one nipple. The sudden jump of sensation goes straight to his cock, already half-hard. “I had the bath taken out of my flat so I could have a bigger shower. There wasn’t really much point keeping it,” sighs Greg.

“You seem to be enjoying it,” says Mycroft quietly, stroking Greg’s arm.

“I know, just – when do I get the time, normally?” asks Greg. His lips are soft at the place where Mycroft’s neck meets his shoulder. “I love your skin,” he murmurs, then bites, sucking gently but insistently. At the same time his thumb finds Mycroft’s nipple again, using the heightened sensation underwater to tease. Mycroft squirms back against him, which only serves to make clear just how hard Greg is. Mycroft’s own cock throbs.

“I want to leave marks all over you,” whispers Greg, burying his lips behind Mycroft’s ear, then moving to nibble his earlobe. “Everyone will know you’re mine while you’re away.”

“That would be inadvisable,” smirks Mycroft, ignoring the thrill along his spine. _Mine._ “After all, the areas I will be visiting are hardly so accepting of same-sex relationships.”

“Oh, I’ll try not to leave my very manly toothmarks on you then,” teases Greg, chuckling. Mycroft can’t help joining in.

Greg’s left hand strokes the trail of hair leading down Mycroft’s stomach. The back of his hand brushes the head of Mycroft's cock. “I need you,” he whispers in Mycroft’s ear.

Mycroft catches his breath in his throat. “I need you to fuck me,” he says, voice low.

Greg’s fingers go still on his stomach. “You’re sure? Now?”

“I am certain,” returns Mycroft, voice more confident than he feels. He puts his hand over Greg’s and guides it to his hard, straining cock. “Entirely so.”

“You know exactly how to win an argument, don’t you?” asks Greg. Mycroft can hear his smile.

“My livelihood depends on it,” he returns, smoothly.

“Hmm, well, not like this, I hope,” murmurs Greg, stroking him luxuriously from root to tip. “It’ll be a very short bath if we get out now.”

“Immaterial,” snaps Mycroft, pushing Greg’s hand away and standing up. He makes to get out of the bath, but Greg looks up at him, eyes crinkled with laughter.

“Oi, slow down, and help me up,” he grins, holding out his hands. Mycroft pulls him up and finds himself wound in Greg’s arms. They kiss slowly, until Greg pulls back. “Stay there a second,” he says gently. He gets out of the bath and wraps a towel round his waist, then holds out a towel for Mycroft. “Come here.”

Mycroft steps out, and Greg wraps him up in the soft material, gently dabbing droplets from his neck and chest. “You don’t have to –” mutters Mycroft, rather discomfited by this slow, careful tenderness.

“I know I don’t _have_ to,” smiles Greg. “Just want to.”

Mycroft relaxes slowly, closing his eyes as Greg dries him, feeling the soft brush of kisses on his chest and shoulders, his neck and jawline. “You look so gorgeous,” murmurs Greg.

Mycroft huffs a little laugh, but doesn’t open his eyes.

“You’re all mine, and I get to take care of you,” says Greg, voice deep. “And I intend to.” Something in his tone makes Mycroft’s eyelashes flutter, even though he doesn’t open his eyes.

Greg stops behind him, and his hands are at Mycroft’s hipbones, pushing him gently forward. “Bed,” he says, darkly. Mycroft opens his eyes and they walk through into the bedroom. Greg takes the towel from him and drops it on the floor, then drops his own too. He pushes Mycroft down on his stomach, and begins to kiss his shoulders and upper back, lips and tongue and the occasional scrape of teeth. He bites and sucks and makes Mycroft gasp.

“You are marking me again.”

“Mmm. Alright?”

“Certainly.”

“You can look in the mirror when you’re away and remember how I fucked you.”

“I am sure I will. Are you planning to do that anytime soon?”

“Oi, bloody impatient, Mycroft Holmes. I’m taking my time. Simmer down.” Greg emphasises his point with a particularly strong bite to the meat of Mycroft’s arse. Mycroft takes a hissing breath in. “Right,” says Greg determinedly. “Hands and knees please.”

Mycroft looks stubbornly over his shoulder at Greg. “Pardon?”

“You heard,” grins Greg. “Hands and knees. Like I said, you’re mine. And I’m going to take care of you, in whatever way I want.” He digs his fingernails into Mycroft’s arsecheek, scratching just a little. “Up.”

Mycroft’s cock, trapped between his belly and the mattress, throbs. With an ill grace, he pushes himself up to hands and knees.

“Good boy.” Greg arranges himself behind Mycroft, digging his fingernails into both hipbones. He bends to kiss Mycroft’s back. “Such a good, beautiful boy.” Settling on his knees, he lets his fingertips play softly over Mycroft’s arse.

Mycroft sighs. “I – Greg –”

“Mmm?”

“What you are doing –”

“Mmm?” Greg’s lips skim softly across Mycroft’s sensitive skin. His hands cup and massage Mycroft’s arse, moving inwards with slow purpose. “Okay, gorgeous?”

“Y-yes,” gasps Mycroft, as he feels Greg’s thumbs slide a little closer to the centre of him. “Are you – is this –” he catches another breath as Greg sucks a kiss into his left arsecheek.

“Relax, beautiful,” murmurs Greg, smoothing one palm up Mycroft’s spine, as far as he can reach. “I’m in charge, remember? You don’t have to think. You don’t have to do anything. I’m looking after you.”

“It is – it is a novel feeling,” murmurs Mycroft, allowing his eyes to close. He can feel Greg’s thumbs inching inwards again. His first instinct is tension, but he makes a conscious effort to relax and blank his mind.

Greg’s lips caress the base of his spine, inching slowly downwards with a flicker of tongue in every kiss. Mycroft takes a deep breath, holding it as Greg pulls his cheeks further apart with his thumbs. And then Greg’s lips are exploring further, his stubbly chin making Mycroft twitch with sensitivity. His stomach flips and his face burns with embarrassment. His cock twitches with need.

Greg’s lips and tongue are moving inexorably downwards, closer and closer to the centre of him. Mycroft gasps at the sheer intensity of sensation, and now – there – Greg’s lips are at the tight, puckered muscle and he hears his own moan of disbelief and pleasure as if it were that of a stranger. Greg is placing short, light kisses around the ring of muscle and the sensation is bizarre, unparallelled, until – his tongue, his _tongue_ –

Mycroft moans uncontrollably and his elbows give out, head falling forward onto his forearms as he clutches at the duvet cover. Greg’s tongue is moving smoothly in circles, building a relentless oncoming wave of pleasure that makes Mycroft gasp – “Greg –”

Greg’s hands are soft on his hips, stroking across his back. “You alright gorgeous? This okay?”

Mycroft pulls at his own hair in an attempt to find some concentration, some coherence. “I – it is – I have never experienced –” he groans at his own inability to find words.

He hears Greg give a warm, happy chuckle. “That’s good, yeah?”

Mycroft hears his own dry laugh as almost a sob. “Y– yes.”

“Good.” Greg’s hands are moving back to spread his cheeks again.

“I –” Mycroft takes a breath. “I’m not sure how much more – before –” There is desperation in his voice.

“Mmm,” Greg’s hum is dark and pleased. “Well you know what you have to do when you want me to fuck you, Myc.” Mycroft’s growl of annoyance at the nickname is far from convincing. Greg digs his fingernails into the meat of Mycroft’s arse. “What do you have to do, gorgeous?”

Mycroft catches his breath, unused to this treatment. Part of him is resentful, but mostly he feels arousal coiling tight at the base of his spine. He wants to touch his cock, just one stroke, or two, for relief –

Greg’s thumbs open him wide, and his tongue is relentless, flicking at his core, pushing a little now, seeking entry –

“Fuck – _fuck,”_ gasps Mycroft, “oh fuck –”

Greg groans and pushes his tongue deeper, then swirls it around the outside of his hole, before breaching him again. _He’s fucking me with his tongue,_ thinks Mycroft, and that thought is too much, he feels his cock throb, he’s afraid he’s going to lose control –

“Stop! Stop, Greg – I can’t – stop –” instantly Greg takes his hands and lips away, pulls back. Mycroft’s chest is heaving, his thighs trembling with the effort of keeping control. He presses his eyes closed as hard as he can, hands over his face. Greg’s hand on his back is only comforting, but even that sends a storm of pleasure through his skin, every nerve-ending sensitised and full of fire. Mycroft’s whine is anguished, needy.

“Fucking hell, Mycroft,” Greg is closer to him now, at his side. His voice is rough. “You’ve no idea what you look like right now, trying to stay in control… You’re so hard for me, gorgeous, you look so good. Wish I could keep going, rim you ’til you come untouched –”

Mycroft sighs out a moan, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Stop – stop talking – _fuck_ – I need you to – I’m _begging_ you to fuck me, Greg. I’m begging now.”

Greg’s breathing is ragged. _“Fuck._ Okay, yes, I –” he sounds suddenly overwhelmed. “I’m going to prepare you properly though. Are you ready for me to –”

“Just – just another minute,” says Mycroft, quickly.

“Okay,” Greg takes a deep breath. His hand is gentle in Mycroft’s hair. “I’m going to the bathroom, okay? I’m going to get cleaned up so we can kiss again. I want to see you, I want to be able to kiss you.”

“Oh go away,” scoffs Mycroft. The words, _you soft idiot_ hang in the air unsaid, and neither of them can help laughing. Greg’s weight leaves the bed next to him.

Mycroft groans, shifts onto his back. Every inch of his skin feels astonishingly sensitive. He shivers and opens his eyes, staring up at the ceiling. God, how he wants to touch himself, to find relief...he puts his palms over his face, and runs his fingers up into his hair. Greg bounces back onto the bed next to him. “Hi gorgeous,” he grins, and leans down for a kiss. Mycroft growls and grabs his head, bites at Greg’s lips. The kiss is almost painful in its intensity.

Greg reaches into the bedside table and comes back with condom and lube. He takes a couple of pumps of lube on the fingers of his right hand and pulls the pillow from his side of the bed. “Put your hips up, hmm?” Mycroft shifts so he can slip it under his hips. Greg kisses his chest, licks slowly over his right nipple. Mycroft gasps and twitches at the dual assault, as Greg’s hand slips between his legs, fingers slick against his perineum. Greg moves up to kiss him, lips and tongue demanding, but Mycroft’s attention is all on the progress of Greg’s strong fingers, slipping further towards his hole. “Ready?” murmurs Greg.

Mycroft takes a breath and nods. “Yes,” he whispers against Greg’s lips.

Greg pulls back a couple of inches, buries his left hand in Mycroft’s hair. His smile is warm and confident, eyes dark and deep. Mycroft’s eyelashes flutter as Greg’s first finger starts to push inside. _How can it feel so big? It’s just one finger_ – he lets out a calm, steady breath and bears down. Suddenly – _there_ – it’s too much, a powerful rush of overwhelming sensation, and he gasps, jumps, but Greg just goes still, allows Mycroft to position himself, to acclimatise.

Greg’s lips place blurred kisses along his jawline. “There we go,” he murmurs. “I’m going to move again now.” It’s just a tiny movement, a repeated crooking of his finger, and yet the feeling is...indescribable. Mycroft moans, grasping the duvet with both hands. Greg hums his pleasure and nibbles Mycroft’s earlobe.

“I want to – I need to touch myself,” groans Mycroft, clenching his hands in the fabric.

“You know you’re not allowed,” whispers Greg. “You can come when I’m fucking you, and not before.” Mycroft’s cock throbs. _“I_ say when,” adds Greg, darkly. “Touch yourself without permission and I’ll tie you to the headboard.”

Mycroft’s stomach knots itself with arousal. He can feel his cock twitching against his stomach. The relentless, stroking pressure of Greg’s finger against his prostate is maddeningly good.

“You like that, don’t you?” asks Greg, in his rough, low undertone. “You like when I tell you what you can and can’t do. My beautiful, dirty little Myc.”

Mycroft can’t even spare the energy to growl at the nickname. He heaves a breath. “Fuck me. Please, Greg. Please.”

Greg chuckles, hums his approval. “Perfect.” Suddenly his finger is gone, and Mycroft whimpers slightly. He can feel Greg pressing two fingertips against him now. “Yes?”

“Yes, Greg –” Mycroft’s tone is impatient, earning him a hard bite to the shoulder.

“When you’re ready,” says Greg, maddeningly. Mycroft growls at him. Greg just laughs, and pushes his fingers slowly inside.

Mycroft catches his breath; even this feels so much fuller than just one finger. Greg’s thumb presses on his perineum, too; the combined pressure is unbearably good. He squirms and presses himself impatiently down against Greg’s fingers. “Three,” he orders. His legs are shaking.

Greg tightens his left hand in Mycroft’s hair and pulls him into a kiss, licking and biting his bottom lip gently. His fingers stroke Mycroft inside, gentle but unrelenting over his prostate. Mycroft growls into the kiss, gasps, sighs. “Please Greg – _please_ – three, or fuck me –”

Greg’s fingers withdraw, tortuously slowly. Mycroft can’t help a low groan. Greg pulls away, shifts up onto his knees between Mycroft’s legs and re-slicks his fingers. His left hand wraps around Mycroft’s cock, thumb swiping over the head. He makes an _mmm_ noise. “Look how wet you are for me, gorgeous,” he says, spreading precome around the head of Mycroft’s cock. Mycroft is frozen with arousal, with an overabundance of sensation. The slow breach and push of three of Greg’s fingers inside him makes him drop his eyes closed and arch his back, a painful-sounding moan escaping through gritted teeth. When Greg hits his prostate again, his cock strains and throbs in the loose circle of Greg’s left hand.

“Please,” he murmurs. It’s all he can say. “Please. Please.”

Greg can obviously see and feel how far gone he is. His voice is tender. “Alright, alright gorgeous,” he says gently. “I’ll look after you.”

Mycroft hears the rip of the condom packet, and opens his eyes to watch Greg put it on. He feels the familiar flip of arousal as he watches Greg touch himself. He passes the bottle of lube to Greg, and looks him straight in the eye as he slicks his cock. Greg bites his bottom lip and catches his breath. When he’s ready, he brings the blunt head of his cock to Mycroft’s entrance and slips his right hand under Mycroft’s arse on the pillow. He leans forward, watching Mycroft’s eyes intently. “Ready?”

Mycroft tries for a smirk, although he’s not sure how successful it is. He nods, breath catching in his throat. “Yes, Detective Inspector,” he says, eyes narrowed.

Greg smiles at him, bracing his left hand on the bed at Mycroft’s side. His thumb traces a soft stroking pattern against Mycroft’s skin. “Alright then.” His dark eyes crinkle softly.

The insistent breach of the head of Greg’s cock inside him makes Mycroft gasp and hold his breath. The stretch and burn is a distantly-remembered surprise, the sheer fullness both a pain and pleasure at once. He can feel tears at the corners of his eyes, and a waning of his erection. Greg dips down closer to him, concern written in every feature. “Should I –”

“Carry on,” says Mycroft on an exhale. “Just – carry on.” Greg hesitates, eyes soft. “Please,” adds Mycroft, more gently.

Greg starts to move again, and Mycroft takes smooth, even breaths, bearing down a little, then a little more as he feels how much it helps. And now – there’s an edge of pleasure in the fullness, something that makes him squirm and push for more. Greg can obviously see the change in his eyes, because his smile starts to return. His thumb is still stroking gently against Mycroft’s side. His fingers tighten a little on Mycroft’s buttock and he takes a quick, shuddering breath in. It’s a visceral reminder to Mycroft of how much Greg must be holding back, of the temptation he must feel to push hard into tightness. Mycroft reaches up, runs his palms over Greg’s chest, his shoulders, his sides.

The wave of sensation as Greg hits his prostate almost flattens him. “Fuck – oh –” his voice sounds alien, desperate. His fingernails dig into Greg’s chest.

Greg holds himself still. Mycroft can feel him shaking, just a little. “Touch yourself for me,” murmurs Greg, and his voice is jagged. “Let me see you.”

Mycroft takes a quick breath, and moves his right hand from Greg’s chest to caress his own balls, sensitive and full, then to his half-hard cock. Just teasing his fingertips along the length is enough to make him gasp, and as he wraps his long fingers around his cock in a loose ring, pleasure floods through him. He’s fully hard again in seconds. “Move,” he mutters. Then, “move – please, Greg –”

Greg gives a little gasp and a tiny, tentative movement of his hips. “Yes?”

“Oh – oh. Yes.” Mycroft bites his bottom lip. “More.”

This time, the stroke is a little longer, a little harder. Greg’s breaths are groans catching in the back of his throat. Mycroft looks up at him, eyes wide, hand slow on his cock to match the push of Greg’s prick inside him. Pleasure radiates through him as Greg hits his prostate again, and he moans through his teeth.

“You are –” Greg’s eyes snap open and he looks intensely at Mycroft. “This –”

“Greg,” pants Mycroft, arching his back and glorying in the bite of Greg’s fingernails into his arsecheek. “Harder. Fuck me.”

Greg moans, and now his strokes are far less gentle. Mycroft quickens the pace of his hand on his cock, feeling his orgasm start to pool in his belly. His left hand strokes along Greg’s side, and his thumb finds Greg’s nipple. He circles, pinches. Greg bucks into him harder, and the pressure is unbearably good.

“Yes – Greg – I’m going to –” he can feel his orgasm curling through him. The pleasure is building inexorably, with almost frightening force.

Greg fights his eyelids open, stares down at him, eyes dark and full. “Come for me, gorgeous. Come for me. I’m –” a shuddering breath “– I’m going to come inside you.”

Mycroft moans brokenly; light, quick strokes to his straining cock. For a moment everything seems frozen, suspended in pleasure, and then the wave breaks and he is shuddering, eyes rolling back, closing, Greg’s name on his lips again and again as he comes, painting both their chests and stomachs with semen.

And through it he can feel the last, fevered strokes inside him as Greg groans and goes still, whispering, babbling nonsense as he comes. Finally Mycroft can take no more and lets his right hand fall to the bed; his left gently caresses Greg’s chest. He slowly, slowly finds the energy to pry his eyes open.

Greg’s eyes are deep, as soft as Mycroft has ever seen them. Greg bends himself as close as he can manage, slipping his left arm under Mycroft’s back to cradle the nape of his neck, dipping down and pulling Mycroft up into a gentle, badly-aligned kiss.

“Fuck,” he murmurs. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He kisses Mycroft’s chin and pulls back a little. “Mycroft –” he lets out a breath.

Mycroft nods. For some reason, he’s fighting back tears. He blinks, terrified to let Greg see. He wriggles his hips, and Greg grins. “Alright, alright.” His attention goes to the condom, and he gently withdraws.

Mycroft takes a deep breath as Greg pads off to the bathroom, staring very hard at the white ceiling. Viciously, he wipes away the small traces of moisture which have sprung up in the corners of his eyes. _Fool._

Greg bounces onto the bed next to him and buries his lips behind Mycroft’s ear. “Alright, gorgeous?”

Mycroft doesn’t trust himself to open his eyes yet. He smiles. “Quite alright, thank you Greg.” He rolls to the edge of the bed and heads for the bathroom. “Just going to – clean up.”

He runs the hot water and uses a flannel to clean his chest and stomach. He leaves the tap running for a while longer than he strictly needs to. Breathing space.

Greg grins at him when he emerges from the bathroom, but Mycroft can see the worried furrow between his brows. He clambers onto the bed and lies down on his front, leans in to kiss Greg. “Sitting on the plane for thirteen hours tomorrow will be an experience,” he says drily.

Greg huffs a laugh. “I’m sorry. Bad timing.”

Mycroft lays his head on Greg’s chest, and shakes it slightly. “No.”

Greg’s hand wraps around the back of his neck. “You okay, yeah?”

Mycroft’s “of course,” is perhaps a little tight, but neither of them mention it.

“We ought to make some food,” says Greg.

“Mmm,” hums Mycroft, sounding supremely unbothered. “I would rather stay here.”

“Me too,” murmurs Greg.

*

“W’time’s’it’?” mumbles Greg, as Mycroft puts his phone back down on the bedside table. Mycroft had just been adding a couple of items to his to-do list.

“Three o’clock,” whispers Mycroft. He’s not sure if Greg is really awake, or having a half-dreaming conversation.

“Not long ’til we get up,” mutters Greg.

Mycroft gives a little smile in the darkness and finds Greg’s hand with his own. “You don’t have to get up.”

“’M coming t’the airport with you, Mycroft,” says Greg, more clearly.

“You really do not have to.”

“Want to though.” Greg’s eyelashes are fluttering, now. “’M coming with you. Don’t let me sleep through, or I’ll have to do a mad dash to the airport like in a romcom and I’ll deliberately embarrass you in the first-class lounge.”

Mycroft snorts. “They wouldn’t let you in.”

Greg opens his eyes fully and laughs, loudly. “Oh my god, you bastard.”

Suddenly, the mattress is shaking with both their laughter. As their giggles fade away, Greg wraps his arms round Mycroft, and pulls him in tight. “Have you had any sleep?” he says into Mycroft’s neck.

Mycroft grimaces. His lips are in Greg’s hair. “Not really. Every time I start to drift off, I think of something else I need to deal with.”

Greg hums sympathetically. “Well we could lie here for an hour until it’s time to get up.”

Mycroft sighs.

“Or we could get ahead of your morning schedule and go for a shower now,” says Greg casually. “I’ll suck you off while we’re in there.”

Mycroft takes a deep breath. “That sounds like an efficiency measure I could approve of,” he says evenly. Greg chuckles and kisses his neck.

“Thought you might,” he grins.

*

The car winds through the empty streets and out onto the dual carriageway with smooth inexorability. Mycroft and Greg are silent, hands woven together on the seat between them.

“We’re going to get there really quickly at this hour,” says Greg miserably. “No traffic at all.”

Mycroft nods. The grey morning light plays across Greg’s face. His eyes are tired and his hair has dried soft and fluffy after their shower. Mycroft’s heart gives a painful, slow turn in his chest. His hand tightens in Greg’s.

“Fuck it,” mumbles Greg, and he undoes his seatbelt to scoot across the seat, slipping his arms round Mycroft and tangling their legs together. He seems to be trying to get into the same physical space as Mycroft. Mycroft laughs, just a little, and Greg pushes their foreheads together.

“This is very dangerous, Greg. You are a policeman and you are not wearing your seatbelt.”

“Oh, bollocks to it,” mutters Greg. “It’s more important that I get to kiss you.”

It is a slow, desperate, tearing kiss. Mycroft bites Greg’s bottom lip and tries to get his breathing under control. He can feel the weak sting of tears behind his eyes. Greg makes a small whining noise in his throat, and Mycroft runs a hand through his soft silver hair.

The kiss ends, and their foreheads meet again. “It will not feel like long, Greg,” murmurs Mycroft.

Greg sniffs a dry laugh. “Yeah, alright, maybe not for you,” he says in a brittle tone of amusement. Mycroft isn’t sure what to say, how to respond. As he’s trying to formulate an answer, Greg sniffs again. “You realise we should be using this time better,” he says, with a lopsided smile. He slides a hand under Mycroft’s jacket and flicks a thumb across his nipple.

Mycroft rolls his eyes but can’t help a small smile. “You are incorrigible, Inspector.”

“That’s Detective Inspector to you,” murmurs Greg, pulling him in for another kiss. They trade chaste kisses for a few minutes, until finally Greg lays his head on Mycroft’s shoulder, sighing.

“Greg –” Mycroft hesitates. His heart is racing. “You said – I do not think you understood my comment – I did not mean that I would not miss you –” he stops, unable to continue. His throat feels full, tight.

Greg pulls back a little, his eyes dark, flicking up to Mycroft’s. Unless Mycroft is mistaken, he can see signs of nervousness in Greg’s face too. “Yeah – I –” Greg runs his hand through his own hair. “Sorry. I’m just – I’m going to miss you. Too. A lot.”

Mycroft blinks and presses his lips together; nods. Then he puts one hand to Greg’s face, fingers along his jawline, thumb gently stroking his cheek. He pulls Greg in for a kiss, running his tongue sweetly along his top lip, dipping it inside as Greg gasps and pushes forward.

“And you will text me everyday?” murmurs Greg.

“I will, I promise.” Mycroft kisses him again. “You must understand that the messages will be short and impersonal. They will not say anything of my – my _regard_ for you.” He feels his cheeks flush a little.

Greg caresses Mycroft’s side under his jacket. “I understand. And I’d better reply the same way, I s’pose?”

Mycroft nods. “If you please.”

The driver’s intercom hisses. “Sir, we are approaching Terminal 5.”

Mycroft presses a button. “Thank you Elliott.”

Greg takes a deep breath. “So. We saying goodbye here?”

Mycroft nods, tightening his arms around Greg’s waist. He pushes their foreheads together. “I will see you in June,” he murmurs.

“In Oxford,” says Greg, miserably.

“Indeed,” returns Mycroft. “For your birthday.”

Greg sighs and rolls his eyes, mocking up a petulant pout. “Can’t we just forget about that?”

“Certainly not,” clips Mycroft. He leans in and nips Greg’s protruding bottom lip, then kisses it better. The car draws to a halt outside the terminal.

“Come here,” whispers Greg, pulling Mycroft in by the lapels. They kiss and kiss, lips and tongue and teeth, demanding, needy. Mycroft’s eyes sting again. He slips his hands under the hem of Greg’s jumper and shirt, craving access to his soft skin just once more. Greg makes a strangled noise in his throat and presses closer. Mycroft kisses along his jaw, down his neck, and buries his nose in the skin at the join to his shoulder. He takes a deep, shuddering breath. Greg is kissing his ear.

Mycroft pulls gently back. “I must – I should.” He stops, not trusting his own voice.

Greg nods, slowly. “Everyday, remember,” he says. His voice sounds strange, forced. His fingers are wound tightly in Mycroft’s.

“Yes.” It’s all he can say. He squeezes Greg’s fingers, then lets go. He reaches for the door handle, but his eyes are brought back as he feels Greg place a soft kiss to the pulse point of his right wrist. Mycroft blinks, then opens the door.

He checks his suitcase, suffers the indignities of Security, and eventually gains the sanctuary of the first class lounge. He drifts through in a state of unreality, straight into the toilets. He shuts a cubicle door behind him, and leans his forehead against the cool plastic wall. He breathes as calmly as he can. He fights the sting behind his eyes. _Fool._

*

Mycroft is busy. He works, and he runs in hotel gyms. He can hardly sleep. His attention is manic, focused, desperate. The brightest spot in each day is the text he sends, around eleven at night so that Greg will receive it as he wakes.

They are boring messages: _Another long and uneventful day,_ or _Seventeen miles on the treadmill,_ or _I went to a restaurant where they make meat out of tofu. It did in fact taste a lot like chicken._ But Greg’s responses make him laugh, or smile: _Uneventful, you lucky bastard, another murder for me. Does that make me sound like a murderer? Hi there, Chinese spies, I’m a policeman not a homicidal maniac,_ or _That’s amazing, but are you sleeping at all?_ or _Sounds appalling._

His chest feels tight and heavy. He works.

*

 **From:** Holmes, Mycroft

 **To:** Lestrade, Greg

 **Date:** Sat, Jun 13, 2015 at 23:13 PM

 **Subject:** Singapore

Dear Greg,

I am now in Singapore, and understand from my team that I have a relatively secure internet connection, although not as secure as at home. I hope that you are not awake yet, since it must be very early on Sunday morning. Perhaps you have plans today? I would enjoy hearing what they are.

I am just getting changed to go for a run. Tomorrow I do not have a full day of meetings, although my inbox and general correspondence is sadly in need of attention.

It is now only six days until I see you in Oxford.

Best,

Mycroft

 

 **From:** Lestrade, Greg

 **To:** Holmes, Mycroft

 **Date:** Sun, Jun 14, 2015 at 09:04 AM

 **Subject:** Re: Singapore

Dear Mycroft,

Thanks so much for letting me know you’ve got a more secure connection now and for your email. You must be back from your run by now.

I’ve got a run today too, with Jenny, but we moved it to the afternoon because she was out on the piss last night – not with me, I should add! Other than that, just cleaning the flat, put the washing on, do a bit of reading. The usual.

Going down the pub with John tomorrow evening. Sherlock’s got a weird case on – nothing to do with me, some sort of modern art theft thing brought to him by a private client – and he’s driving John a bit mental. There’s a football game on so we’ll watch that I expect.

Since the connection’s better but not great I’ll just say...I miss you.

Love,

Greg

 

 **From:** Holmes, Mycroft

 **To:** Lestrade, Greg

 **Date:** Sun, Jun 13, 2015 at 06:43 AM

 **Subject:** Re: Singapore

Dear Greg,

Let me know how your run goes. I’m just clearing up emails and hope to have time for a walk in the city later. I intend to visit Gardens by the Bay – newly built since my last visit – but expect to be absolutely consumed by mosquitos. Even strong deet appears ineffective in discouraging them from my skin.

I miss you.

Best,

Mycroft

 

 **From:** Lestrade, Greg

 **To:** Holmes, Mycroft

 **Date:** Sun, Jun 14, 2015 at 15:36 PM

 **Subject:** Re: Singapore

Dear Mycroft,

Oh yeah, I bet your pale skin is a feasting ground for them. (Lucky bastards.) Have you had your jabs? Don’t want you coming back with malaria or dengue fever.

Run was great thanks – I managed 8k, although Jenny was looking pretty green by the time we jacked it in. Apparently last night was a heavy one.

I booked off that half-day on Friday a while back, but forgot to tell you. You mentioned we might be able to have dinner, so what time should I arrive? And will I be able to stay with you, or need to get somewhere?

Love,

Greg

 

 **From:** Holmes, Mycroft

 **To:** Lestrade, Greg

 **Date:** Sun, Jun 13, 2015 at 20:19 PM

 **Subject:** Re: Singapore

Dear Greg,

As I feared, the mosquitos have enjoyed themselves. However I had a full set of jabs before leaving Britain, so I hope to avoid the various exotic diseases offered by these climes.

Congratulations on your run. I hope the running tights are still living up to my recommendation.

I will be checked in at the hotel already, and they will be happy to welcome you anytime in the afternoon on Friday. Just give my name at the desk. I will ask Anthea to send you the details. It would be wonderful if you could join me for dinner that night; unfortunately I will be forced to attend a college function on Saturday evening, but otherwise I will be quite free.

I look forward to it very much.

Best,

Mycroft

 

 **From:** Lestrade, Greg

 **To:** Holmes, Mycroft

 **Date:** Mon, Jun 15, 2015 at 06:34 AM

 **Subject:** Re: Singapore

Dear Mycroft,

Sounds great. Where is this dinner, and how formally do I need to be dressed?

The running tights are going strong. I’ll bring them with me for the weekend. We should go for a run or two in Oxford.

Love,

Greg

 

 **From:** Holmes, Mycroft

 **To:** Lestrade, Greg

 **Date:** Mon, Jun 13, 2015 at 23:47 PM

 **Subject:** Re: Singapore

Dear Greg,

I would enjoy a run in Oxford. There is a most picturesque route around Christ Church Meadow.

Dinner is booked in the Ashmolean dining room. The dress code is smart-casual; I understand that jeans are accepted but trainers are not. I shall be wearing a suit, as usual (terribly dull of me, of course).

Best,

Mycroft

 

 **From:** Lestrade, Greg

 **To:** Holmes, Mycroft

 **Date:** Tues, Jun 16, 2015 at 07:56 AM

 **Subject:** Re: Singapore

Dear Mycroft,

Oh, terribly dull. I’m sick of the sight of you in suits.

Drink with John was good; although Sherlock had solved the case so I had to sit through a...graphic account of how much better things are now than they were this time last week. I didn’t even ask. Smug bastard.

I got a text last night from Vi saying that she and Fee are going to be in London for a show tomorrow night. She wanted to know if I’ll go for dinner with them, as it’s been ages since I’ve seen Fee. So we’re meeting up for pizza before they go to see _Matilda_ (which I’d love to see, by the way, but I expect musicals aren’t your thing…?).

What time are you back in the UK on Thursday?

Love,

Greg

 

 **From:** Holmes, Mycroft

 **To:** Lestrade, Greg

 **Date:** Tues, Jun 16, 2015 at 23:54 PM

 **Subject:** Re: Singapore

Dear Greg,

Flight arrives at Heathrow at 10:15 on Thursday. The car will take me directly to Oxford as there will be a full day of meetings and an evening event.

Enjoy the pizza.

Best,

Mycroft

 

 **From:** Lestrade, Greg

 **To:** Holmes, Mycroft

 **Date:** Weds, Jun 17, 2015 at 15:42 PM

 **Subject:** Re: Singapore

Dear Mycroft,

Great. Let me know when you’re about to fly, and when you land?

Love,

Greg

*

**[02:01] Just about to leave Singapore. MH**

[09:05] Thanks for letting me know. Hope you manage to get some sleep on the flight. G

**[10:38] Arrived safely in Heathrow. MH**

[10:45] Brilliant! So glad you’re home. It’s ridiculous you’re so close but I can’t see you. Can’t wait for tomorrow. G


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much for reading and commenting so faithfully and kindly, guys! Another long chapter ❤️

[14:57] Managed to get away roughly on time. On the train! G

[16:38] Wow, Mycroft, this hotel is ridiculous. The public servant in me has to ask: the taxpayers aren't covering this are they?! G

[17:14] If they are, they're also paying for this very nice cocktail. Guess your meeting must be one where you've had to turn your phone off? G

****[17:32] My apologies Greg, this may run on longer than expected. Could we meet at the restaurant? The booking is at 19:30. I will not have time to come back and change for dinner. MH** **

[17:35] Pretty sure you’ll look amazing anyway, Mycroft. See you there. G

*

Mycroft stands in the toilets at the museum. It’s just after half past and he’ll have to climb the last set of stairs to the dining room in a moment. For now, though, he stands irresolute. He feels cold, strangely shivery. His stomach squirms with nerves. He washes his hands. The warm water makes no impression on his icy fingers.

Climbing the quiet back staircase of the museum feels strange, dreamlike, his vision a tunnel. He nods to the head waiter, who indicates his table with a sweep of the hand. Greg sits with his back to Mycroft, checking his phone. Mycroft realises he should have texted to say he was on his way. He leans on his umbrella for a moment, gathering the courage to step closer.

Picking his way through the surrounding tables, he realises that he is effectively sneaking up on Greg. He has a mad impulse to put his hands over the other man’s eyes from behind. He presses his lips together and frowns at himself. He takes a deep breath and steps next to Greg, touches him tentatively on the shoulder.

Greg jumps slightly, and looks up. His smile is unhesitating, as full and bright as Mycroft has remembered. His chest feels tight, and he finds himself unable to breathe. Suddenly, he realises that he doesn’t know how he should greet Greg; he has no idea of Greg’s level of comfort regarding public displays of affection, and he isn’t sure how much he himself should be revealing to the world at large. Greg gets to his feet and tips his head slightly, eyes dark and soft, but shrewd. He leans in and hugs Mycroft, a tantalising press of bodies that leaves Mycroft aching, but which could be supposed to be a friendly hug, depending on one’s point of view.

Mycroft’s eyes close as the wonderful, shower-fresh, deeply _good_ scent of Greg surrounds him. He takes a quick breath, then steps back slightly.

“I’m glad to see you,” says Greg, gently. He sits back down, and looks up expectantly. Mycroft hastens to sit down too. He hooks his umbrella over the back of his chair.

“My apologies for being rather late,” says Mycroft, a little stiffly.

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” smiles Greg. “I guessed it would be a bit unpredictable after your message earlier.”

Mycroft nods, staring at the tablecloth. “Nevertheless, I had hoped to be able to return to the hotel and shower, change –” he gestures slightly to his dark blue suit.

Greg gives a soft chuckle from across the table. “Mycroft,” he says, voice low, “you look impeccable, as usual. Great suit.” He leans forward, and Mycroft can feel his eyes on his face. He can’t look up. “You look –” Greg breaks off as a waitress appears next to them.

“Can I get you some drinks?” she says, lighting the candle between them. “Let me give you the wine list –” she passes it to Mycroft.

He raises an eyebrow, glancing at Greg. “Wine?”

Greg nods. “Yeah. Your choice. I’m in the mood for red, if that’s alright.”

“Certainly.” Mycroft points to a bottle he is certain will be acceptable, and orders some water, too. The waitress departs. He spreads his napkin carefully in his lap. “It was not too difficult to leave work on time?” His voice sounds diffident, ineffectual. He presses his lips together.

“Nah, the Chief wanted a few bits doing but in the end I just told Sally I was off the clock and they could sort it out or leave it to pile up on my desk until Monday, for all I cared.” Mycroft can hear the smile in Greg’s voice.

“I am sorry that I was not at the hotel to meet you.”

“Stop apologising! I get it, alright? It’s work. We’re only here because you have work. I’m just glad to see you now.”

The waitress returns; Mycroft indicates with a nod that Greg should be the one to approve the wine. He does so and smiles across at Mycroft. “Yeah, yeah, really nice.” The waitress pours for them.

“Could I get you gents some starters?”

Mycroft has not looked at the menu, and his stomach is turning somersaults. Greg realises he’s not ready and looks at the menu himself. “Some bread would be great…and some olives?” he looks up at Mycroft, who nods. He’d nod at almost anything, really. The waitress smiles at them and leaves again.

Greg leans forward. Mycroft flicks a look at him through his eyelashes. His expression is open, concerned. “You look skinny, Myc. You haven’t been eating properly, have you? And you’ve been running all the time, I bet. Is your leg okay?”

Mycroft fixes his gaze on his own fingers, lightly wrapped around the stem of his wineglass. The whole scene feels unreal, somehow. He shakes his head slightly. “Simply a busy trip,” he says, quietly. “You yourself look rather tired.”

“Oh, charming,” teases Greg. “I dressed up and everything.”

Mycroft flushes slightly. He has the sense that everything he attempts to say this evening will be maladroit. It seems his diplomacy has fled him. “I meant that – I meant –”

“Hey, Myc, I know,” murmurs Greg. “I’m just messing around. You know me.”

Mycroft nods slightly, then glances up as the waitress places bread and olives on the table. He gives her an impersonal smile and she departs.

“Your flight home was alright then?” asks Greg, taking a bit of bread and some olives.

“Perfectly acceptable. Some turbulence, but nothing too distressing.” He can hear his own stiffness, the almost-cold tone of voice. He winces slightly. This is unacceptable. _Stop this cowardice._ “And Wednesday evening –”

Greg cuts in at the same time. “Myc, I need to talk to you –”

“After you – no –” they say in unison. There’s an awkward pause.

“Shit, I wish we’d been able to meet at the hotel,” mutters Greg miserably. “This is stupid. I need to talk to you. Are you asking me about Wednesday evening? It’s kind of – it’s kind of about that.” He nervously shreds a small piece of pitta bread, looking up at Mycroft from under his eyelashes.

Mycroft feels his heart sink, and his stomach turn. _His ex-girlfriend. Her daughter. Musicals. Pizza. A family. A different kind of life. A significant birthday._ The deduction is a simple one. He closes his eyes for a second, then straightens his back and fixes his gaze on the carafe of water. “Yes,” he says as blankly as he can manage. His voice does not shake.

“Listen – I don’t know if – I don’t think you’re going to want to hear this but…” Greg takes a deep breath. The pitta bread is being reduced to tiny compressed pills, now. “I realised – I went out with Vi and Fee, you know, dinner the other night – and we were talking and – I mean – I’ve missed you so much, I don’t think you can know how much given the texts and emails had to be so short –”

Mycroft’s lungs might be collapsing. He takes the slowest, most measured breath he can manage.

“And it doesn’t feel right – I mean, this whole weekend together…we’ll be…or at least I hope we will –” Mycroft sees Greg’s nervous grin as he glances up through his eyelashes, and it feels like a knife to the gut. “I need to tell you, because I’d feel guilty, like I wasn’t being – honest – if I didn’t…” Greg tails off and takes a gulp of wine. “I’m really sorry if…. I just.”

Mycroft feels sick. “Alright,” he says, dully.

Greg pushes his right hand through his hair, and lets out a sigh of frustration. “I’m sorry, I know I’m explaining this really badly, I’m just a bit –” he waves his hand in the air. “You know. Nervous.” He makes a little growling noise. “I – seeing Vi, it made me realise that you…the way I am around you –”

The waitress appears next to the table. “Your main orders, gents?” she smiles.

Greg glares up at her. “The steak, please, medium rare,” he returns.

“Salmon,” orders Mycroft at random. His mouth is completely dry. He can’t trust his hand to bring his wineglass safely to his lips. He swallows, hard. The waitress leaves again.

“Bloody hell,” mutters Greg. “Right. I was saying – I mean, I’ve known for a while, but just seeing Vi made me realise even more that it’s not – what we’re doing –” he gestures between them, over his plate, “for me it’s not just…something casual.” His voice grows in confidence. “I’m not just messing around, Mycroft. I mean – I have a great time with you, but when you left – and when you were away – I was…I missed you all the time. _All_ the time. It hurt, it _physically_ hurt not being with you, and I couldn’t sleep, and I just wanted you back. And I don’t know if you’re ready for me to say any of this, or if I’m maybe just mucking everything up, but I feel –” he sighs. “I feel like there’s a lot of stuff I can’t say to you at the dinner table. But I want to.”

Mycroft’s eyes are drawn inexorably to Greg’s. They stare at one another. Mycroft feels as though he is floating.

“Myc…” prompts Greg, softly. “Say something. Please.”

“I would like to listen,” says Mycroft, at last. He hears his own voice, overly formal, but the smile spreading slowly from Greg’s eyes across his face is painfully beautiful. Mycroft’s heart turns over in his chest.

Greg leans forward, but seems lost for words for a moment or two. Neither of them looks away. “That’s good news,” whispers Greg. “Where’s your foot? I just need to – I need you.”

Mycroft rushes to make sure his feet find Greg’s under the table, and they smile at one another. “Hi,” mouthes Greg. Mycroft can’t restrain his smile. He can feel it spreading across his face. His cheeks tinge pink. Even through leather shoes, the connection to Greg feels electric.

He leans forward. “There are things that I would like to say to you too,” he says, quietly. Their gazes catch and hold.

“It’s been a long five weeks,” murmurs Greg. His voice is dark. Mycroft’s stomach flips.

The waitress puts Greg’s steak down in front of him first, followed by Mycroft’s salmon and roasted vegetables. The last thing he wants to do is eat. He just wants to be alone, with Greg, in their hotel room. To talk, to kiss, to – he swallows hard, drops his eyes to the plate of food in front of him.

Greg picks up his knife and fork. “Come on, gorgeous,” he smiles, speaking quietly. “You’ll need the energy.” His grin is cheeky, dark eyes sparkling. Reluctantly, Mycroft picks up his cutlery and pokes delicately at the salmon. It’s perfectly cooked, falling apart at the merest touch of the knife and fork.

“So the room’s beautiful,” says Greg, through a mouthful of steak. “Mmm, oh this is delicious.”

“I thought it would be nice to stay somewhere special for your birthday,” says Mycroft, with a delicate shrug of one shoulder. “And to answer your earlier question, no, it is not being paid for by the taxpayer.”

Greg chuckles. “Alright. I won’t feel so guilty then.”

“What would you like to do for your birthday?”

Greg’s eyes are deep. He blinks slowly. “Stay in bed.”

Mycroft can feel his cheeks redden again. “Certainly,” he agrees. “And of course there are several museums. We have access to my old college gardens, if we wish. There is a nice walk across Port Meadow, to a very acceptable pub. I noticed that the Phoenix are showing _In the Heat of the Night_ tomorrow afternoon, if that appeals. Or –”

He feels the pressure of Greg’s feet squeezing his own. “Hey, gorgeous,” he smiles. “Thank you. We’ll see what we fancy in the morning, yeah?”

Mycroft takes a breath, and nods, staring at his wine glass. “Of course.”

Greg leans forward. “I want to kiss you.”

Mycroft finds his eyes drawn inexorably to Greg’s. “Yes.”

“Let’s finish eating.”

“Yes.”

They return to their food. Mycroft’s just aiming to get through enough that the chef won’t be insulted. He sips his wine and stares at the rest of the bottle. He can’t be bothered to try and finish it.

“You still have access to your old college, then?”

“Certainly. The library, the gardens, a standing invitation to formal dinners.”

“Nice. Did you live in college?”

“Yes. The rooms are of course occupied by students again now.”

“Shame. You could’ve shown me your old bedroom.” Greg’s heated glance and slight smirk show Mycroft the train of his thoughts, and he can’t help a small smile.

“Sherlock and John were of use while I was away?”

“Yeah, yeah – no particularly exciting cases, but I got Sherlock in on a couple. He pissed off forensics mightily though, I’m buying Thomson free coffees til the end of the year to say sorry for Sherlock calling him an incompetent halfwit.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes and sighs. “Sometimes I think John is of no practical use whatsoever in restraining him.”

“Ah well. They’re obviously happy,” smiles Greg. “And Sherlock’s still not being a shit about u– about you and me, so I’m just going to take it.”

Mycroft flushes, and puts his knife and fork down decidedly. He’s finished all the vegetables, save the potatoes, and the majority of the fish. His stomach is clenched too tight for more. His skin crawls with the need to be close to Greg.

Greg finishes his last chip and puts his cutlery together, then stares deliberately at the waitress. When she asks if they’d like to see the dessert menu, they both say “no” a little too quickly. She smiles at them. “I’ll just get you gents the bill then.”

Greg and Mycroft laugh quietly as she walks away. “We couldn’t be much more obvious,” murmurs Greg.

“I find myself hard pressed to worry about it,” confesses Mycroft.

“You’ll be –” mutters Greg, raising an eyebrow.

“Good grief,” says Mycroft, trying not to laugh as he rolls his eyes. “Greg.”

Greg snorts as laugh as the waitress returns, holding the bill and a card machine. Mycroft quells Greg’s movement towards his wallet pocket with a glance and hands over his card. He is terribly aware of Greg’s ankle pressed against his own.

As they walk down the silent back stairs of the restaurant, Mycroft feels Greg’s fingers thread through his own. His stomach flips. Outside, darkness has fallen and the warmth of the day has faded away. Their hotel is just opposite the Ashmolean. Suddenly, he finds himself pulled into the darkness beneath the museum’s side archway.

Greg pushes him back against the marble, hands undoing his jacket buttons, then straying to stroke the silk back of his waistcoat. “I need that kiss,” he murmurs, burying his nose in Mycroft’s neck.

Mycroft gasps at the wonderful sensation of being trapped between Greg’s body and the cold, unassailable stone. “There could be cameras,” he mutters, although he has no intention whatsoever of denying Greg anything.

“Oh well, you can delete this later then,” whispers Greg with a little huff of amusement. His right hand comes up to Mycroft’s cheek and he pulls him gently down. Greg brushes their lips together first, as though he cannot believe that the right to do this has been returned to him. Mycroft’s lips tingle with the soft, electric sensation; his umbrella hits the ground as he wraps his left arm hard around Greg’s back and his right hand slips into the other man’s soft, silver hair. Now Greg groans, “Myc – god – at fucking _last_ –” and crushes their lips together, the kiss almost painful in its desperation. And Greg is up on his toes, left hand pressing Mycroft’s shoulder back against the marble, tongue teasing Mycroft’s bottom lip and dipping inside –

Mycroft wants Greg to crush him, to push him so hard against the stone that they are joined, no air between, no dead space, only twined limbs and pressed bodies –

The kiss is a tearing, vicious thing and Mycroft whines, quietly, aware of their proximity to the street. Greg grinds himself against Mycroft’s thigh; he is desperately hard. Mycroft grabs his hand and brings it down between them, showing Greg what he has done to him. Greg’s fingers, exploring the rigid line of Mycroft’s cock in his trousers, are exquisite torture. Mycroft’s hips buck uncontrollably and Greg makes a muffled noise of approval into the kiss. Greg’s hand is becoming more insistent, as he palms Mycroft’s cock through the fabric. Mycroft moans and pushes Greg back. “Stop, stop Greg.” He takes a gasping, ragged breath. “It –” he blushes in the darkness, bites his sensitive, bruised bottom lip. “It won’t take much.”

“Fuck,” mutters Greg. His voice is shredded, breathless. “I’m sorry –” he takes a gasp of air. “Me either. Let’s – christ, let’s get back to our room.”

“I cannot walk into the hotel in this state,” whispers Mycroft, fighting hysteria. He bends to pick up his umbrella. “I’m going over to that pillar. Do not…touch me. Or say anything. Or breathe loudly.”

Greg snorts with laughter as Mycroft walks over to the shadows of the other archway pillar. “I’m sorry,” he chuckles. “You could just think about the Queen in her underpants.”

Mycroft makes a slightly strangled noise. “Good god, Greg, I have to actually meet with the woman.”

“Yeah, well, you know what they say. Imagining everyone else naked is good for your confidence.”

“That’s not helping at all, in present company. Be quiet.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“That’s not helping either.”

“No, Sir.”

“Detective Inspector –”

“Now who’s not helping?”

Mycroft smirks in the darkness. “It seems you are determined to be unhelpful,” he says loftily. “I am simply going to do my jacket up and hope that everyone else is as unobservant as they usually are.”

“You could always put your brolly up in front of you.” Greg dissolves into giggles and Mycroft can’t help it, he’s laughing too, stupid, mad laughter that ties his stomach in knots and forces him to lean back against the cold, stone pillar. Neither of them can stop, and they set one another off repeatedly until Greg comes over and takes his hand, firmly. “Come the fuck on, you prat,” he says through another spasm of giggles. “This is ridiculous.”

It’s just a few metres to the hotel. The imposing concierge nods at them with dignity and opens the front door. They manage to keep straight faces until they’re in the lift.

In the second-floor corridor, Mycroft feels the proximity of Greg as a physical pull. Even long, deep breaths don’t seem to fill his lungs adequately.

“Have you got the keycard?” asks Greg. His voice sounds jittery, nervous.

“Of course,” returns Mycroft, sliding it out of the inside pocket of his jacket. He holds it up to the scan lock on the door and takes a sharp breath in as the LED light turns green.

His hand shakes a little as he inserts the card into the light-activation slot by the door. They both step inside and Greg locks it behind them. The click of the lock seems strangely loud to Mycroft. There’s a pause as they look at one another, and then Greg’s fingers wind into his own. Mycroft looks down at their joined hands, and the tug behind his heart is almost painful. He feels drunk, edgy, incoherent with pleasure and nerves. _Hormones,_ he tries to remind himself sternly, but it doesn’t stop his head spinning.

“I’m suddenly…” Greg clears his throat, huffs a little laugh. “Actually really bloody nervous. Is that stupid?”

Mycroft shakes his head, but can’t find the right words. He squeezes Greg’s fingers, then brings his other hand up to stroke the back of his lover’s neck. He uses his height, stepping close and tipping Greg’s head back. The kiss is sweet, a brush of lips that slowly, slowly deepens into something searingly intense, until Mycroft is breathless, overwhelmed and craving. Greg’s hands are bunched in his lapels, and their bodies are crowded together, Mycroft’s cock hard against Greg’s stomach, Greg’s pressed into his thigh. They’re not doing anything about it yet, but Mycroft needs _more_ – more skin, more tongue, more hands, more _everything._

He moans into Greg’s mouth. It’s the breaking point. Greg shoves him roughly against the wall, and the air is pushed out of him in a shuddering breath. Greg’s against him in a second, lips fastened on his neck, nipping and licking; his hands are fumbling desperately at Mycroft’s belt and Mycroft wants Greg’s trousers gone too, but there’s no room – he pushes Greg back and works at his own belt buckle, his own trouser buttons. Greg gets the idea and moves his attention to his own garments. The few seconds of separation feel like physical pain to Mycroft. The moment Greg’s fly is open he pulls him back in so their chests are tight together. He leans down to kiss Greg’s ear, then to bite along his jawline until finally he can reclaim his mouth in a messy, frantic kiss.

Greg groans as Mycroft wraps the long fingers of his right hand around both their cocks, squeezing them together in a long, slow pull. “I missed you Myc, I fucking missed you so much,” he mutters falteringly. His hands are frenzied as they pull the tails of Mycroft’s shirt out of the back of his trousers. He slides his hands up Mycroft’s back, then down inside his briefs, squeezing Mycroft’s arse and using his grip to grind them still closer together. “This can’t be slow, it can’t be slow,” he murmurs distractedly. “I need you too much, you’re too –  _ _much…”__  his voice tails off as he buries his lips in Mycroft’s neck.

“I know, I know,” growls Mycroft in return. His hand speeds up on their straining cocks. “Trust me, it certainly won’t be slow,” he adds, with a breathless huff of amusement. “Greg, look at me – look at me –” Greg’s eyes are infinitely dark, deep brown as he tips his face up. He’s biting his bottom lip, trying to resist the relentless onslaught of sensation from Mycroft’s pistoning hand. Mycroft leans down and kisses him, biting and licking his bottom lip. Greg’s fingernails dig hard into Mycroft’s arsecheeks.

Mycroft can feel it; his orgasm has been imminent for a while but it’s an inevitability now. He breaks rhythm for a moment to palm the precome leaking from both their heads; the intensity of pleasure redoubles and they both gasp. They are grinding together, pushing through the tight circle of his grip. Mycroft bites Greg’s earlobe.

Greg whines with need. “I’m so close,” he groans. “So close.”

Mycroft draws his earlobe into his mouth and nibbles at it. “I can feel how close you are,” he whispers. “Right on the edge. It won’t be long now. And I know what you’re going to do – what you want to do.”

“Your voice, Myc,” mumbles Greg. He seems dazed.

Mycroft pitches his voice lower. He can feel his orgasm like an onrushing wave. “Come for me, Greg,” he orders. “Come all over me. Make a mess of my suit.”

__“Fuck,”__  growls Greg, and he goes rigid as he starts to come, grunting with need. Strings of pearly come paint themselves across Mycroft’s waistcoat. Greg bucks his hips, pushing his spasming cock through Mycroft’s grip. His head drops onto Mycroft’s shoulder; he watches, body moving of its own accord. “I need to see you,” he rasps. “Let me see you.”

Mycroft drops like a stone into a blindingly strong orgasm. From somewhere far, far away he can hear his own groans, Greg’s name dropping from his lips; he knows that Greg has taken over, using a palmful of their come to stroke them through it. The sensation just gets stronger, until at last he moans helplessly, and croaks out, “enough.”

Greg flops against him, pushing him back against the wall, forehead nestled into Mycroft’s neck. “Myc…oh, Myc,” he mumbles quietly. His left hand is still down the back of Mycroft’s briefs. After a while – a few minutes? Mycroft can’t tell – he feels Greg squeeze his bum. “Hi,” says the detective, and Mycroft can hear the irrepressible grin in his voice.

“Hello,” is all he can manage in return.

“I need to take your clothes off you now,” says Greg, still curled against him. “I need you to be naked, and I need to be in bed with you, and it’s nearly my birthday so we have to do what I say.”

“It sounds like an impeccably good plan,” replies Mycroft lazily. “As long as you will be naked too.”

“Of course.”

“Very well.”

“We should move.”

“That will be essential to the success of this venture, yes.”

“Hmm.”

“Indeed.”

Greg chuckles and stretches a little, looking up at Mycroft. His eyes are soft and sparkling. Mycroft can’t help kissing his smile. “Oh good, you can move,” grins Greg. “Sorry for ruining another suit.”

“I’m sure it’s not ruined,” smiles Mycroft. “The hotel’s dry cleaning service will know what to do with it.”

Greg laughs ruefully. “They’re going to know exactly what we’ve been up to.”

“Greg, I’m fairly sure everyone on this floor knows what we’ve ‘been up to’. And if they don’t know __now,__  they certainly will by tomorrow morning,” adds Mycroft, with a smirk.

Greg throws his head back and laughs. “Promises, Mycroft Holmes, promises.”

“Mmm,” hums Mycroft, kissing his ear. He pushes Greg gently away. “You’ll have to take your hand out of my pants.”

“I’ll just take you out of your pants, ta,” grins Greg. “Far more effective.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes and shrugs off his jacket, which, remarkably, seems to have escaped unscathed. He hangs it on a coathook and begins unbuttoning his come-covered waistcoat. Greg undresses at the same rate, hanging up his jacket and toeing off his shoes and socks. They drop everything on the floor and Greg winds their fingers together; he leads Mycroft into the bathroom and they wash their hands, smiling at one another in the mirror. Absentmindedly Mycroft starts doing his teeth, so Greg does the same. “Ooh look,” he mumbles unclearly through the brushing. “We get bathrobes.”

“Do you want yours?” asks Mycroft, making to reach it down.

“Nah,” Greg shakes his head and spits into the sink, washes his mouth under the tap. “S’alright. Rather just be in bed with you.” He smiles at Mycroft. “We can snuggle up in them after we have a bath later, maybe.”

They clamber into the huge bed from opposite sides, and Mycroft feels suddenly, unaccountably nervous again.

“God, you’re far away,” chuckles Greg. “Let’s meet in the middle.”

The sheer, bone-deep pleasure of being in touch with every part of Greg’s skin, from head to toe, makes Mycroft’s head spin. He sighs, and buries his lips in Greg’s hair, wrapping his arms around the other man. “That is – this is –” he can’t find the words.

“Perfect. It’s perfect,” sighs Greg. “I’ve missed this most of all.”

They are silent for a few moments. Mycroft breathes in Greg’s hair and Greg nuzzles the nape of Mycroft’s neck. Mycroft hopes he can’t hear how hard his heart is pounding.

_Cowardice._ He takes a deep breath. “Greg –”

“Mmm?”

“I said that…that I have things to say to you too. And I do. I think perhaps – and I apologise in advance if this is incorrectly expressed; as you know, my experience of –  _ _relationships__ is extremely limited –” he can feel Greg smile against his chest. “Can we…could we look at one another?”

Greg nods, and Mycroft shifts onto his side, pulling the pillow so that they can share it. He takes Greg’s hand in his. “While I was away – it became… _obvious_ to me that you are now –” he blinks, and takes a deep breath. “Essential to my happiness,” he adds quickly. He flicks his eyes nervously up to Greg’s, which are wide and deep. “You said at dinner that this –  _this_ is not casual for you, and I must make it clear that it certainly is not for me either. If –” he hesitates, breathless, “– if you do not want it to be.”

“Oh Myc,” breathes Greg, and Mycroft’s nervous glance tells him that Greg is looking at him wonderingly. “Of course. I want us to be – an _us._ Official. A Thing.” He grins, but it falters slightly after a few seconds. “I…there’s something else I want to say, that I _have_ to say because it’s bloody eating its way through my chest and I’ll say it by accident if I don’t say it now. But –” he frowns, biting his bottom lip, “it’s a big thing and I’ll completely understand if you – if you’re not.” He takes a deep breath and looks fixedly at their joined hands. “I’m – Mycroft. I’m falling in love with you.” He breathes out and looks tentatively up. The sweep of his eyelashes is mesmerising. “Actually – if I’m being completely honest, which I probably should be, I’ve…done that. Fallen. Already. In love with you. Completely. Head over heels. Um. So.”

Mycroft’s heart is hammering in his chest. He feels as though a tight, painful knot in his stomach is finally being picked apart. He blinks, silently. “Greg,” he murmurs. “Greg…I thought that perhaps I had been a fool, but if… I, too. I am in love with you.”

Greg’s smile is blindingly beautiful, and his dark brown eyes are brimming full, too bright. Mycroft leans in and kisses him. It makes the space around his heart hurt more than he’s ever known. It is the simplest and most electrifying kiss of his life.

“Then we’re both bloody idiots,” mumbles Greg thickly. A couple of tears pool on his nose, and Mycroft kisses them away. “But it’s alright if we’re idiots together.”

Mycroft presses as close as he can, wrapping both arms around Greg and getting as much of their skin together as possible. Every nerve hums with sensation, with the satisfaction of skin-to-skin. Mycroft kisses Greg’s shoulder.

They drift together for a while, exchanging kisses.

*

“There’s a posh coffee machine,” murmurs Greg after a while. “I could make us something?”

“Mmm,” hums Mycroft drowsily. “I’ll do it. What would you like?”

“I can do it.”

“It’s your birthday. Do what you’re told,” smiles Mycroft.

“Latte, please, if it does those,” yawns Greg. “I’m going to put the news on. Have you seen the size of this TV?”

“Yes, it is unnecessarily huge,” replies Mycroft. He pads into the bathroom and pulls on one of the fluffy white bathrobes.

The mutter of the evening news comes on in the background, and Mycroft starts up the coffee machine.

“So what’s this thing you have to go to tomorrow evening?” asks Greg.

“It is a formal college dinner, actually,” returns Mycroft. “But as part of this weekend’s event, rather than merely a standing invitation. Otherwise I would not attend. I am sorry it will cut into our time together.”

“Oi, stop worrying,” calls Greg from the mountain of pillows he’s burrowing into, propped up on one arm to keep an eye on the telly. “Think I’ll take a long bath, order room service and chill out. It’ll be brilliant. Are you giving a speech or something?”

“Goodness, no. Simply being present in an extremely…background capacity.”

Greg looks at him sceptically. “Hmm. Oh well, I’ll be able to send you pictures of what I get up to then.”

Mycroft turns to look at him, and the corner of his mouth turns up. “I’m sure that will make it far more entertaining that it would otherwise be.”

Greg chuckles. “Well, you might have worn me out by then. In which case it’ll just be loads of selfies of me in the bath, reading a book, and then watching something tragically awful on TV.”

“As I said,” returns Mycroft levelly, “far more entertaining than usual.”

Greg smiles as Mycroft makes his way over, carrying the two coffee cups carefully. He takes a sip of his latte and hums appreciation. “Thank you, gorgeous.”

Mycroft clambers back into bed and sips his own black sweetened coffee. “Have you thought further about what you would prefer to do tomorrow?”

“Yeah, the Natural History Museum would be good. But only if there’s time in between us making up for being apart for so long.”

“Understood,” says Mycroft, suppressing a smile. “And in that regard…?”

Greg pauses, looks up at him. “Oh. Oh –” he grins. “Depends. What’s on the menu?”

Mycroft looks down at him seriously. “Anything,” he says. “I want us to do exactly what you want, in every way, tomorrow. And Sunday. This is your weekend.”

Greg blinks up at him for a few seconds, then leans over to put his latte down on the bedside table. He sits up and clambers into Mycroft’s lap. He pushes their foreheads together. “How did I get this lucky, hmm?” he whispers.

Mycroft shakes his head very gently, eyelashes sweeping down. “Not as lucky as I have.”

Greg leans in and they kiss, slowly. “To answer your very kind question,” resumes Greg, “bit selfish, but I’d like you to take care of me. Will you – will you fuck me?”

“Of course,” murmurs Mycroft, his stomach twisting. “Anything you want.” He hesitates, then adds delicately, “I _did_ notice that we have a fine full-length mirror over there.”

Greg goes still on top of him then leans down for another kiss. “Fucking hell, Mycroft.”

“I wonder if…” says Mycroft diffidently. “I wondered if perhaps you would like me to try – what you did before I left. It was…” he can feel his cheeks tint slightly pink, and looks fixedly at Greg’s collarbones.

“Well bloody hell, yes, of course,” says Greg rather indistinctly. “Only – well, I didn’t bring anything – the mouthwash, or…” he trails off, not knowing quite how much detail to go into.

“I –” Mycroft clears his throat. “Er. Did. I confess I have been…interested in mastering the skill ever since.”

“Well you’ve got a willing practice subject here.”

Mycroft flushes a little deeper and smoothes his hands down Greg’s sides. “Excellent news,” he murmurs. He sees the clock in the corner of the TV screen. “It is only three minutes until it is officially your birthday.” He wiggles his hips. “Off.”

Greg snorts at the peremptory order and bites Mycroft’s shoulder as he slumps back into his pile of pillows. Mycroft crosses to the wardrobe and brings out two neatly-wrapped parcels. He returns to the bed and lays them carefully on the duvet next to Greg, who looks up at him with soft eyes. “Myc, you didn’t have to.”

Mycroft looks at him perplexedly. “I just wanted to,” he returns, with a curl to the edge of his mouth. “Open this one first.”

Greg unwraps it impatiently. Inside is a box, containing a beautiful foldable umbrella, clearly of extremely good quality. Greg chuckles and catches Mycroft’s eye. “Very nice. God, I’ll have to try not to lose it.”

“I told my umbrella maker that you would not be keen to carry a full-size apparatus with you in the course of your job. He would like you to know that, though the folding umbrella is far inferior in terms of effectiveness and structural integrity, he has done his best to make it the best it can be,” says Mycroft seriously. “Apparently it will not turn inside out in high winds.”

Greg giggles and leans in for a kiss. “Ta very much.” He turns his attention to the second gift. The box inside contains a bottle of extremely expensive single-malt whisky. “Bloody hell, this looks amazing.” He smiles softly. Mycroft hands him a card.

Greg opens the envelope and pulls out the card. Two tickets to _Matilda_  fall onto the duvet. The card reads, _To not drinking alone._

“Oh, Myc,” says Greg gently. He sits up and leans in for a long, slow kiss. “Am I allowed to ask you to come with me? Or would that be too unbearable?” He smiles.

“If you ask me today, I cannot refuse,” says Mycroft drily. “Those, I understand, are the rules.”

Greg chuckles. “Alright. Mycroft Holmes, will you be my date to see _Matilda,_ please?”

“Yes,” sighs Mycroft. “Very well, Detective Inspector.”

“I have another birthday request.”

“Yes?”

“My knees miss your knees. Can I be the big spoon?”

“You want to go to sleep?”

“Yes. I want to fall asleep cuddling you, and stay that way until morning. So be warned, you’re going to wake up with a raging hard-on pressed against your back. No bloody duvet between us this time.”

Mycroft chokes slightly on air. “Pardon?”

“When I stayed over – before…before anything happened. I didn’t think I’d get out of the room without you noticing. I could hardly walk.”

Mycroft gives a wry smile. “I was somewhat too distracted by my own predicament.”

“Oh…well good. So glad it wasn’t just me.” Greg gives him a smug smile. “We’re idiots.”

“Speak for yourself.”

Greg pokes him in the side and kisses his neck. “I’m going to do my teeth.”

“I’ll fill out the breakfast-in-bed card. What will you want?”

“Ooh, fruit, yoghurt and eggs on toast please.”

As they settle down to sleep, Mycroft feels Greg kiss his shoulderblade. “I love your knees,” whispers the detective.

“You have excellent knees.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

*

“Greg.” Mycroft places a cappucino on the bedside table and strokes a hand through Greg’s hair. “The breakfast is due to arrive in ten minutes.”

Greg takes a deep breath and yawns, then blinks a few times. “It’s not even nine, Myc,” he grumbles. He rolls onto his back and opens his eyes properly. “And you’re dressed! I thought I’d be waking up to your gorgeous naked backside…” he grins and pulls himself up to sit against the headboard. “Mmm, great coffee, thanks.”

Mycroft gives a little smile. He perches next to Greg on the bed. “Happy birthday.”

“Thanks gorgeous.” Greg leans in for a coffee-tasting kiss and they lose a few minutes to the slow slide of lips and tongue.

The knock at the door comes, and Mycroft signs for breakfast. The waiter sets up the table in the suite and Mycroft shows him out.

“Bloody hell Myc, is that champagne?” calls Greg from the bed.

“It certainly is,” returns Mycroft, popping the cork. “How else would one start one’s fiftieth birthday?” he reappears in the doorway, carrying two glasses.

“Urgh,” mumbles Greg. “Don’t say the number.”

Mycroft laughs a little, and returns to the edge of the bed. He holds his glass out to touch Greg’s.

“Nah,” says Greg, pretending to pout. “I’m doing nothing until you’re naked.” Mycroft rolls his eyes, puts his glass down on the bedside table and goes to put the ‘do not disturb’ sign on the door.

He comes back, unbuttoning his shirt.

“Come here,” says Greg. “Hey, hey – no rush. Slower.” He grins as Mycroft flushes a little. “Come and stand right…here.” He lies back against the pillow with his glass of champagne in a lordly fashion. “Proceed.”

Mycroft snorts and rolls his eyes, but begins again, unbuttoning his shirt slowly. Greg’s eyes follow his fingers hungrily. Finally, Mycroft shrugs it off.

Greg hums appreciatively. “Next,” he grins, taking a sip of champagne.

Mycroft unbuttons his trousers and draws the zip slowly down.

“Oh __Myc,”__ murmurs Greg. “If only I’d known you weren’t wearing pants.” He puts his champagne down and kneels in front of Mycroft, kissing his stomach. He pushes the trousers gently to the floor. “Mmm,” he hums, happily, kissing closer to Mycroft’s growing erection.

“Greg,” says Mycroft as sternly as he can manage. He pushes him back onto the bed, and climbs in next to him. “This is your birthday. It’s about you and what you want, not me.”

“What if,” whispers Greg darkly into his ear, placing kisses down his neck, “what I want is to suck you until you scream?”

Mycroft growls and turns to Greg, holding him down by the shoulders. “Then you can do that later. For now I think we should shower.”

Greg grins cheekily. “Yes, _Sir._ Although fuck knows how you expect me to get this morning wood to go down so I can pee before we do.” He hops out of bed, and Mycroft watches his frankly magnificent arse on its way to the bathroom.

Finally, Greg opens the door slightly and turns on the shower; by the time Mycroft joins him, he’s already washing his hair. Mycroft turns him round and takes over, massaging his scalp gently, interspersed with a few harder tugs on his silver hair. Once Greg’s hair is clean, Mycroft takes a palmful of shower gel and starts massaging his lover’s back. Greg groans and braces himself against the wall; Mycroft’s cock, already hard, twitches at the beautiful sight in front of him. He massages hard, moving slowly lower, until he’s pressing and rubbing the bottom of Greg’s spine, just above his arse. He leans over to kiss Greg’s neck. “You are beautiful,” he whispers into Greg’s ear.

Greg turns around, and Mycroft crowds him against the marble wall. They both catch their breath as their cocks touch and rub. They grind together for a few moments, before Mycroft pulls Greg back into the stream of the water. He gets out of the shower first and wraps himself in a bathrobe, before holding the other out for Greg. When Greg steps out, he hands him a towel for his hair and draws him close, bending to kiss his jawline, down his neck and his collarbone.

“You don’t mind breakfast going cold?” asks Greg tentatively.

“Not in the slightest, if you don’t,” returns Mycroft silkily, steering Greg by the hips into the bedroom.

“I really don’t,” says Greg, and he sounds slightly breathless. “Listen – Myc – are you sure you’re…okay with this? Doing this? Trying it, I mean,” he adds.

“I told you, Greg, I have been able to think of little else,” smiles Mycroft, pulling him in for a kiss. His hands are busy untying Greg’s bathrobe. He slips it off his lover’s shoulders and drops it on the bed, then throws his own to join it. “Come over here.”

His hands on Greg’s hips, he steers him to the wardrobe, the doors of which are comprised of floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Mycroft positions them in front of it and wraps his arms around Greg’s waist. He pulls Greg’s head round for a few more kisses. “Ready?” he murmurs into the kiss.

Greg nods, nipping his bottom lip. “Please.”

Mycroft takes his right hand to Greg’s and braces it against the mirror. Greg puts his left up too. Mycroft kneels behind him, and strokes him from hip to knee, kissing the backs of his thighs, up to the crease where his leg meets his arse. He scratches Greg’s buttocks gently with his fingernails, beginning to tease them softly apart. He kisses Greg’s tailbone. His stomach roils with nerves. What if he hates it? What if he’s simply no good, and Greg hates it? He has studied to the best of his ability over the past few weeks, but time and resources for the endeavour have been scarce.

He pulls Greg’s cheeks further apart and starts to kiss into the crease. He nudges Greg’s legs wider with his own knees. Greg’s breathing is heavier. Mycroft wishes he could see in the mirror, to check whether Greg is still aroused, whether he is enjoying it. He kisses and licks closer to his target. Greg makes a sort of choking noise which Mycroft has to assume is good, since it’s not accompanied by any sort of protest or pulling away.

“Fuck, Myc, god, please,” murmurs Greg. Mycroft thrills with the pleasure of power. He reaches Greg’s hole and touches it with the very tip of his tongue. Greg shudders. “Oh,” he moans. “Oh, yes.”

Remembering what Greg had done to him, Mycroft flicks his tongue softly over the tight ring of muscle. The taste is shower-fresh but earthy. Not like anything he’s experienced before. In itself it is not an innately pleasurable experience, but the noises that Greg is making…those are something different. Mycroft begins to circle his tongue, building pressure slowly. He digs his fingernails into Greg’s arse, eliciting a hiss, followed by a moan.

Mycroft builds up a rhythm, alternating a few licks and kisses with intense, circling pressure. Greg’s breathing is laboured, and he’s almost sobbing Mycroft’s name. Finally, he moans and gasps out, “Myc – Mycroft – I can’t – if you carry on I’m going to come. I need you to fuck me.”

Mycroft pulls back, reluctantly, but doesn’t move his hands from their position spreading Greg’s arse. “What do you want?” he asks, voice rough. “Because I’d love to make you come like this.”

Greg whines. “Fuck…isn’t that…though…I – what do you want? I mean –”

Mycroft laughs, darkly. “Gregory Lestrade, you tell me what you want _now._ Do you want to come with my tongue inside you?”

Greg’s groan is loud and seems to rip from inside his chest. “Yes – I – yes. Is that alright?”

Mycroft just laughs in response, and digs his fingernails into Greg’s arsecheeks. “Can you see how hard I am, Greg?”

Greg drops his head between his shoulders and groans. “Yes. I keep watching you,” he rasps. “You look so good. So hard.”

“Mmm,” hums Mycroft as he buries his face between Greg’s cheeks again. He nudges Greg’s legs still further apart. Renewing his onslaught on Greg’s hole, he starts to lick with more purpose. He dips his tongue at the very centre, teasing it open, pushing a little harder each time. Greg is fully braced against the mirror, relying on it for support. The mewling, growling sounds he’s making are getting Mycroft harder and harder. He groans as he dips his tongue deeper into Greg than before, and Greg makes a shredded, raw sound.

“Myc – oh fuck – I can’t take any more,” he groans.

Mycroft responds with a deep hum and a swirl of intense pressure, followed by more pointed, invasive licking.

Greg groans brokenly. “Oh, that’s it, that’s it,” he mumbles incoherently. “Oh, that. Yes, please, Myc. Please, Myc. Oh, please…” he’s babbling nonsense now, Mycroft’s name over and over as Mycroft fucks him with his tongue. “I’ve got to do it,” says Greg. “I have to,” and then his right hand is on his cock, and Mycroft can see and feel the frantic movement of his shoulder as he tugs, once, twice, and then Greg howls Mycroft’s name, every part of him tensed with need as he finally falls over the edge, painting the mirror with spurt after spurt of come.

At last, Greg shivers with total oversensitisation, and then his knees buckle; Mycroft steadies him and helps him into a controlled collapse to the carpet. Greg’s laughing just a little, tears in the corners of his eyes. He reaches out blindly for Mycroft. “Fuck,” he whispers. “Fucking hell, Myc.” He grabs Mycroft’s arm and pulls him closer. “Come here,” he groans. “Come here –” and he’s pulling Mycroft up, to straddle his chest. Mycroft feels strong hands on his buttocks, and then Greg is pulling his cock into his mouth; the sensation is almost overwhelming. He is already so close to the edge. He wants to fuck Greg’s mouth, but he holds himself still.

“Come on, gorgeous,” moans Greg indistinctly. He digs his fingernails into Mycroft’s buttocks, and swirls his tongue around the silky head of Mycroft’s straining, throbbing cock. “Come in my mouth. I know you can’t wait to unload on my tongue.”

Mycroft groans, and buries his hands very gently in Greg’s hair. He moves, just a little, the tantalising lapping of Greg’s tongue almost the end.

“Fucking hold my head properly, Myc,” growls Greg. “Harder.”

Mycroft hears himself make a terrible, shredded sound, and he tightens his hands in Greg’s hair. Greg increases the suction and swirls his tongue around the head of Mycroft’s cock in a relentless rhythm. Insistent, lapping pressure to Mycroft’s frenulum and that’s it, he’s shaking and groaning Greg’s name as he comes onto his tongue. It seems to last forever; completely spent, Mycroft feels Greg swirls his tongue one last time, and swallow. Mycroft gently loosens his grip on Greg’s hair. He plasters himself down Greg’s side, and they lie, breathing heavily, on the carpet.

“You are fucking incredible,” mumbles Greg, turning his head as if for a kiss.

Mycroft jumps and rolls away. “Oh! No,” he says. In the bathroom, he uses the antibacterial mouthwash, cleans his teeth and washes his hands carefully. His hair is in damp disarray, and his cheeks are flushed. He smiles at his reflection, and opens the door. He helps Greg up and sits him on the edge of the bed. Greg leans his head exhaustedly against Mycroft’s stomach.

“Don’t tell me that’s it for you,” smirks Mycroft.

“It is for now,” grins Greg. “The perils of advancing age.”

Mycroft runs a hand through Greg’s damp silver hair, then sits down next to him. “That was…okay?” he asks tentatively.

Greg gives him a look of utter bewilderment. “Mycroft…christ, that was one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen or done in my entire life, alright?”

Mycroft’s cheeks are red. “Very well. Would you like breakfast? Your eggs will be cold.”

“That’s okay,” grins Greg. “A couple of cold boiled eggs are a small price to pay for _that.”_

“Get in bed,” murmurs Mycroft, dropping a kiss on Greg’s shoulder. “I’ll bring it to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, gorgeous readers: I hope you enjoyed this! You will by now have seen that this is the final chapter (not quite sure how it got up to 30?!) in the tale.
> 
> I have had this in mind as the last chapter for a while, but I wanted to be sure that I could bring things to a close as I expected/hoped before declaring that. Essentially, I wanted to get this story completed before Series 4 of Sherlock airs, as we don't know what's going to happen next in canon; I'm honestly so happy to have been able to bring Mycroft and Greg to this 'safe harbour' before the turbulence and upheaval of Sherlock S4.
> 
> Depending on how the new series goes, there are plenty of other parts of this story I want to write. I'll add those to a series as and when I get to write them. Please come follow me on Tumblr (green-violin-bow) because I post Mystrade and Johnlock ficlets when the mood strikes.
> 
> This has been...such a wonderful experience for me. To have people read what I have written, to give me kind, supportive feedback, has just been mindblowingly wonderful. I've always been very insecure about my writing, and got discouraged very easily. I'd really like to say so many thanks to Lockedinjohnlock, who messaged me when the germ of this story was an idea on Tumblr. Without your support and encouragement this would never have developed into a longer story. Thank you.
> 
> All of you who have read and kudos'd and commented: thank you SO much. You have made me laugh and smile and tear up and actually cry with your wonderful comments. Please accept my hugs and love ❤️

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Out of Thought](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11658927) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock)




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